


Lost Gods

by DragonWrites



Series: Emissary Davenport [4]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2019-10-27 00:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 47
Words: 165,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17756387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonWrites/pseuds/DragonWrites
Summary: The Gods of Faerun have gone missing.  No one knows where they've gone or what could have taken them away.  But without them to maintain the delicate balance of order and chaos, life and death and fate itself, it won't be long before the world begins to come apart.It's time for the Seven Birds, emissaries of the gods themselves, to save the world again.(Set in the Emissary Davenport series, but this story can be read on its own.)





	1. Twilight of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa hey, it's me jumping into my next longfic! For those of you who have not read anything in my Emissary Davenport series, I've written this to be a stand-alone, so anyone who hasn't read anything of that series can still follow along and not be lost (hopefully)! But other than "Davenport is also an emissary to a god," this story is fully canon-compliant because that's how I roll. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz takes a stand. Merle and Refuge lose track of time. Davenport gets the axe.

Kravitz stepped out of his office into a roomful of zombies.  And his first thought was, "Not again."

Sighing, he drew his scythe.  This was getting ridiculous. 

He swung the blade easily, its sharp silver edge passing through the bodies of the trio of zombies closest to him.  They staggered to a halt…and then began to knit themselves up again, their bodies healing as if he'd never touched them.

He rolled out of the way of a swinging, rotted fist, giving himself time and space to assess the situation.  About a dozen zombies were shuffling towards him.  In the back of the room, he could see a dark-cloaked figure bent over a summoning circle, their hands moving quickly to shore up and strengthen the spell they were using.  The only other thing in the room was a spare scythe leaned up against a wall, with…something large and bulky attached to its shaft.  He couldn't quite make it out in the dim light.  About half the zombies were between him and it.

"Welcome!" Lup's voice boomed over the loudspeaker.  "To Reaper Training Gauntlet version five-point-oh!  Looks like your standard scythe attacks aren't gonna work on _these_ zombies, Skeletor!  You're gonna have to get… _creative._ "

A spotlight clicked on, illuminating the modified scythe.  But even in better lighting, Kravitz still had no idea what he was looking at.  His mind couldn't process it.

Was that a _keyboard_ attached to the scythe??

Oh no.  They _wouldn't have._  

They had.

He kicked away another zombie.  "Oi, you have _got_ to be kidding me!"

"Looks like the only way to defeat these zombies is to knock them back with a power chord!" Lup practically sang over the loudspeaker.  "Who could have _possibly_ forseen this?!"

He switched to skeleton form the moment he felt a blush spreading a cross his cheeks.  "This scenario is ludicrous!" he snapped.  "It would be incredibly unlikely to run into this in the field, and--"  He paused to knock back a pair of zombies with the flat of his scythe, "--if it _did,_ we could simply destroy the summoning circle!"  He elbowed another zombie in the stomach.  They were closing in on him, making a grab for his cloak and his arms.

There was a telling pause.  The dark-cloaked figure by the circle, who was obviously Barry, looked up at the ceiling in surprise.

"Uh, no we definitely can't do that!" Lup extemporized.  "Because what if the summoning circle is _protected by a shield?"_

Barry gestured frantically, bringing up a shield around the circle.

One zombie got a good grip on his cloak and began tugging.  Kravitz swore, undoing the clasp of his cloak.  He lept up out of the fray, sailing over their heads and towards the keyboard-scythe combo.  One particularly eager zombie grabbed him by the ankle, but he pulled loose and landed in an awkward roll.

"You know," he snarled, not even bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice, "piano wasn't even my instrument!"  But he grabbed the keyboard-scythe anyway.  It was one of the nicer scythes, too.  And now its fine ebony shaft was marred by fantasy duct tape.

Damn it, how was this supposed to go?  What even was a 'power chord'?  He placed his fingers, played an A-minor chord.  A burst of energy rolled out of the instrument, knocking the front row of zombies back and seemingly stunning them.  Hmm.  It was a start, but not enough.  He needed to finish this quickly, so he could sit down with Lup and Barry and give them a good long talking-to.

He should have known better.  But he'd made a critical error a few months ago, when he'd disciplined Barry for experimenting with a necromantic tome picked up from a cult they'd recently fought against.  "You cannot violate the Raven Queen's law," he'd said.  "Especially as her employee!  Especially _in her domain!_ Now, unless this is some bizarre training regimen, I suggest you take apart this summoning circle _post-haste."_

Barry had had the decency to look embarrassed.  He'd knelt down and begun to wipe away the partially-completed chalk circle. 

"Soooo…" Lup had said, sidling up behind him.  "What you're saying is, if it's for training, it's okay?"

That was the moment he realized he'd lost.

And since then, Lup and Barry have seemingly made it their new mission to ingeniously integrate whatever bizarre experiments they wanted to run into 'training exercises.'  Which was bad enough.  But then somehow they'd found out--likely through Taako, he loved that elf but _damn it Taako_ \--that he'd had musical ambitions when he'd been alive.

And now this.

His phalanges tightened over the scythe's shaft.  No, he was not going to be pressured like this.  Dropping the keyboard-scythe, he channeled as much of the Raven Queen's power as his construct-form could handle, and cast Undeath to Death.

The zombies evaporated with a shriek.  Barry looked up, blinking.  A door appeared in the wall behind him, presumably leading to the next room in the gauntlet.

He shifted to his human-form and rolled his eyes.  Barry and Lup were both powerful necromancers in their own right, but he had centuries of experience, and spells at his command that they would never have thought to protect against.  "Now then," he said.  "Lup, get in here."

She sighed over the loudspeaker, and then her voice cut off.  A moment later, she shimmered through one of the walls.  "You ruin all the fun," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

"Fun?!" he snapped.  "Our work isn't fun, it's as serious as life and death!  Literally!"

Barry rubbed the back of his neck.  "We just thought…you know?  You've been working really hard, and I--we get that.  I think our work speaks to how serious we take this, and how much we appreciate the opportunity.  But…we figured, especially now that we're here and can help share the load, you can, you know…relax a bit.  Have some fun once in a while."

"Explore some neglected passions!" added Lup.  "Bird Mom knows, we could use a little music to lighten up the place."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.  "Listen.  As much as I loved music, that was a different life!  I have a new life now.  With other, more important responsibilities to handle.  I don't have time to play around with--"  He gestures to the modified scythe.  "Whatever this is!"

"A keyscythe," Barry supplied helpfully.

"What's next?" he asked.  "A necromantic tomb where I have to dance to a beat in order to strike my foes?"

Lup and Barry looked at each other.  Kravitz sighed and pushed open the door to the next room, his gaze squarely on them.  Instantly, a heavy techno beat began to play, _oontz-oontz-oontz-_ ing while neon lights flashed against their faces.

Barry blushed.  "We call it, uh, necrodancing."

He raised an eyebrow.  "Look, can we just set aside the training and focus on working on actual cases?  Until the Raven Queen comes back from the Divine Convocation, she requested--"

"We know," said Lup.  "Bird Mom left you in charge."

"And will you please stop calling her Bird Mom!"  He strode back towards his office.  "Clean up this mess, both of you.  I've received concerning reports about some sort of death cult whose members have cropped up in multiple cities, and I want to take a look at it before it continues to spread much further."  He gestured, and a few of the ravens perched around the office began to gather folders into a pile on his desk.

Barry scratched his jaw.  "Is it normal for her to be away this frequently?" he asked.  "Didn't she have to attend some other Divine Convocation, like, a month ago?"

"Yeah," said Lup, "I thought you said they were pretty rare."

"Time moves differently for the gods," Kravitz said, pausing in the doorway to consider this.  "I admit, it is…unusual to have two gatherings this close together.  But if the Raven Queen feels that something requires our attention, she will let us know when she returns."  He crossed over to his desk, and reached for the top folder.

Every raven in the office screamed at once.  Kravitz staggered back, stunned as the noise seemed to pierce right through him.  The ravens took off in a flurry of panicked wings, and then vanished, leaving not even a flutter of loose feathers behind.

They hadn't teleported away.  They had simply ceased to be.

He stared at the empty office.

Barry gasped behind him.  Lup asked, her voice shockingly quiet, "What was that?"

Kravitz put a hand to his mouth.  "I don't know," he said.  "I don't know."

 

#

 

Redmond reached down into his cloak and pulled out a package.  It was wrapped simply in brown paper and twine.  He handed it to his brother.  "Happy birthday, Luca," he said warmly.

Luca took the package, eyebrows raised.  He ripped away the paper with enthusiasm, and looked down at the second and third Caleb Cleveland novels.  He gasped.  "Redmond--you shouldn't have!"  He opened one of them and took a delicious whiff of the new book smell.  "How did you even manage this?"

Redmond shrugged.  "Pulled in a favor from Ren," he said.  "Shipped straight from Neverwinter."  He chuckled.  "Apparently there's twenty books in the series already!"

 _"Twenty?"_ Luca's eyes widened.  He'd chanced to acquire the first book many years ago from a traveler passing through Refuge, back before the bubble went up.  He'd read it so many times by now that it had become quite battered.  The fact that Redmond had noticed and gone out of his way…He felt the prick of tears in his eyes, and quickly wiped them away.  "Well, I guess I have a lot more to catch up on than I thought!" he said.

Redmond smiled.

It was a lovely evening for a quiet birthday celebration.  It was mid-Spring, and the weather in Refuge was mild, the air stirred by a pleasant breeze.  They were sitting out on the front steps of the Temple of Istus, sharing a pitcher of ale between them.  Overhead, the stars were just starting to come out in the purple of twilight.  The town was quiet, the only sounds the musical chirping of insects and the merry ticking of the temple's own clocktower, its gears humming along not by any stored kinetic energy but by Istus's blessing.

"So how's that new acolyte working out for you?" Redmond asked, raising an eyebrow.

Luca sighed.  "Well, I admit that his additions to the temple have been…unconventional."  He took a deep breath and gave his brother a game smile.  "But time moves ever forward, and there's no use dwelling in the past."  The corner of his mouth twitched.  Such typical phrases of Istian theology had taken new meaning in the wake of the Temporal Chalice and all that it had wrought in their tiny town. 

"Amen to that," said Redmond, lifting his tankard in toast.  "Still…"  He paused, glancing back at the temple doors.  The sounds of hammering and whirring had long since died down; that very afternoon, the acolyte had declared his project finished, whatever that meant.  Redmond dropped his voice.  "Brother, do you…well, this might be the cynic in me, but…do you believe him, when he says he was guided by Istus to undertake this work?"

Luca took a long pull of his ale, and quietly set down his tankard.  "To be honest, I was skeptical at first.  But I prayed to Istus for guidance, and I sensed her divine approval.  As to the purpose it serves, well…"  He shrugged.  "Only time will tell--"

A horrible mechanical screech tore through the still night air.  Luca and Redmond were on their feet in an instant, their tankards knocked over and spilling ale down the steps.  Luca turned to the temple's clocktower.  His heart leapt into his throat.

The Istus-blessed clock had stopped.

 

#

 

"One more shtory!" Mookie demanded.  "Jusht one more!"  He smiled his gap-toothed smile up at Davenport.

"That's what you said one story ago," said Davenport, firmly but not unkindly.  "And now it's time for bed." 

"Aww, but Mavis gets to shtay up!" he said, pointing to his sister, who stood further down the beach, peering up at the night sky with a telescope.

"That's because Mavis is older," said Davenport, sighing.  "When you're older, you can stay up later, too.  But not tonight." 

"I'm older today than I was yeshterday," Mookie pointed out.

Davenport was quickly running out of sighs, and he wasn't in the mood for the endless circular arguments that Merle's son excelled at.  He still couldn't believe he'd let Merle wheedle him into babysitting a second time, after the disastrous Incident of the first time.

"Because it isn't really babysitting," Merle had argued.  "I'll be up in the main house.  I just need someone to keep 'em occupied on the beach for a few hours while I play host.  You know Mookie gets wound up when there's a big event going on, and these old fuddy-duddies won't be too happy with my lil' fireball underfoot."

Davenport glanced up at Merle's sprawling beach mansion, its windows all glowing in welcome.  The promise had been "only a few hours," but the meeting of dwarven clerics was still going on, and it was way past the time Mookie should have been in bed.  He debated the merits of letting the boy stay up versus trying to put him to bed only to have him escape and cause havoc in the house.  Arguably, the consequences of the former would be less severe--

"Hey Uncle Dav?" asked Mavis suddenly, looking up from the telescope's eye piece.  "Was the Light of Creation kind of…orange-y?"

"No," he said, "it was white, actually.  A brilliant white."  He'd been so thrilled to find Mavis developing an interest in astronomy.  At least he could have a sensible conversation with one of Merle's kids.

"Oh."  Mavis peered into the telescope again.  "Good, so that isn't the Light falling."

Davenport's heart skipped a beat.  He glanced up at the sky, his breath quickening, and a voice in the back of his head said _No, not again, I can't do this again I just can't--_

"Probably a comet, right?"  She paused, giving him an odd look.  "Uncle Dav…?"

"Let me see," he said, his throat raw.  Mavis stepped aside and he peered into the telescope. 

It wasn't the Light.  But it was bright, and flaming orange-gold in color, and growing quickly in size.  Like a meteorite burning up in the sky.  Or like a fireball.

He straightened.  It was big enough now that he could see it unaided.  And it was heading straight for the beach where they stood.

"Mookie--Mavis--run!"  He scooped up Mookie--gods, why were dwarven children so _heavy?_ \--and made a beeline for the trees.  A roar was building in the sky.  "Go go go!"

"What is that?!" he heard Mavis cry out.  But he didn't have an answer.  The sky grew unbearably hot and bright.  He wasn't going to make it to the treeline.  This thing was coming down right on top of him!  Trusting to Mookie's sturdy dwarven heritage, he tossed the boy into the shelter of the trees, just before he was knocked over by a blast of heat and sand exploding behind him. 

The air cooled.  The sand settled, and the beach became quiet again.  Davenport's ears were ringing.

He pushed his face up and spat out a mouthful of sand.  "Mavis?" he groaned.  "Mookie?  Sound off!"

There was a rustle of branches.  "Here," said Mavis.  "What _was_ that?"

"That," said Mookie, "was… _amazing!"_

Davenport brushed more sand from his face, and rolled over to get a better look at what had crashed into the beach just behind him.  There was a small crater in the beach.  Near the center was a golden double-bladed war axe, embedded in a pool of rapidly cooling glass.

"Hey kiddo," said the axe. 

Davenport blinked.  "Arumdina?"  He looked around, surprised to see the divine axe by herself, with his patron god nowhere to be seen.  "Where's…where's Garl?" he asked.  "What's going on?"

"Honestly, your guess is as good as mine," she said.  "Looks like you and I are going on a road trip!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kiddos, and hang onto your blue jeans, because this ride is gonna get WILD!
> 
> (Also--yes, "necrodancing" is a reference to the dungeon-crawling rhythm game, Crypt of the Necrodancer, which is amazing and super fun to play.)


	2. Convocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merle heals, to everyone's surprise. Lup & Barry get some book-learning. Davenport takes charge again.

Merle rubbed his beard in thought.  He spread his arms wide in an open, placating gesture.  "Listen," he said, "'Pan' means everything, right?  So if we just call our group the Dwarven Pan-Religious Council, it would _mean_ everyone."

One of the dwarves halfway down the table cleared his throat loudly, shoving an enormous pair of spectacles up a thin nose.  "While I appreciate a good nod to etymology as much as the next dwarf," he began, immediately marking him as a cleric of Dugmaren Brightmantle and therefore a nerd, "I fear that the double meaning of the word would lead to confusion.  People would just assume we were all clerics of Pan, which is incorrect."

Several other dwarves nodded their heads, grunting in agreement. 

One cleric of Hanseath slammed her fist on the table, causing the foam to slosh over the brim of her prodigious tankard of ale.  "That's why I say we should go with my original suggestion!" she said.  "The Boozin' n' Bibles Club!  First we booze, and then we discuss _theology_!"  She grinned, slamming one fist into the palm of her hand.  Never had the word 'theology' sounded so aggressive.

"Well, that would hardly be either fitting or welcoming--" the nerd cleric began.

"I think it's rather on the nose," said another, throwing back his own tankard.

And once again, the council devolved into another round of shouting suggestions over each other.  "The Dwarven Arch-Quorum," "The Greater Dwarven Interfaith Council of Faerun," and the elegant but mystifying "Stonespeakers."  Merle glanced over in the corner, where a lesser acolyte of Dugmaren was attempting to transcribe all the names being flung about the room.

He sighed.  Outside the window of his expansive dining hall, night was falling.  At least Dav was with the kids, so they should be fine.  And he had nowhere else to be tonight.  He relaxed further into his seat.

There was a flash of light outside the window, followed by a low _boom._   Merle sat up in alarm.  The room fell silent.

"What was that?" asked the nerd cleric.  The cleric of Hanseath was already on her feet, drawing her greataxe as if gearing up for a fight.

The sound had come from the beach.  Where his kids were.  Merle's voice stuck in his throat.  He stood, wanting to run to them.  But in this moment of shock, his legs were jelly.

The door to the council chamber swung open.  And there was Dav, holding a big golden axe in his hands.  Mavis stood uncertainly by his side.  Mookie shot out from behind him and launched himself like a rocket across the room. 

"Daddy!  Daddy!" he shouted, knocking Merle back into his seat.  "It was _sho aweshome!_   There was thish bright light in the sky and it came down right on the beach-- _kaboom! Pssshh!_ \--and there was--"

"Merle," said Dav, "we need to talk."

The note of concern and authority in Dav's voice triggered Merle's instant worry.  Dav held the axe with a white-knuckled grip.

Now that the original shock was ebbing, the rest of the gathering began to mutter among themselves.  "Now see here," said the cleric of Moradin, getting to his feet, "you can't just barge in here!  This is a sacred gathering--"

"Which is exactly why you need to hear what I have to say," said Davenport, leveling his most authoritarian glare at the speaker.  "Something has happened to the gods."

The cleric of Hanseath narrowed her eyes, as if debating whether he was an enemy she should be beating on for blasphemy.  Merle realized, not without a bit of alarm, that Davenport had just barged in here with a weapon.  He stood again, setting Mookie down, and moved to step between them.  "Now, now--let's all take a deep breath and get to the bottom of this.  Dav wouldn't run in here unless it was a dire emergency."

Davenport nodded, clearing his throat.  "Thank you, Merle.  Gathered clerics, I have reason to believe that something dire is happening--has happened--to the gods.  Merle, if you could check in with Pan, well…perhaps we can find out what's happening.  Or…honestly," and he ran his fingers through his long hair, "I'd love to be proven wrong."

Merle nodded.  "I cast Commune!" he said, loudly.

There was a pause.  And then a chime of distant bells.  Golden light warmed his shoulders.  Merle took a deep breath, waiting to hear the loving voice of his god.

"We're sorry," came an unfamiliar voice, clipped and professional.  "The deity you are attempting to reach…PAN…is not available.  Please disconnect and try again."

Merle sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth.  Behind him, all at once, two dozen dwarven voices shouted, "I cast Commune!"

"…They're not gonna pick up," came a quiet voice.  Merle glanced down at the axe in Davenport's hands.  He could've sworn it had just--

The room filled with light and the sound of bells.  "We're sorry," came a chorus of voices.  "The deity you are attempting to reach…"--a cacophony of names were intoned, Moradin, Hanseath, Marthammor Duin--"…is not available.  Please disconnect and try again."

Merle's stomach roiled.  He'd been cut off from his god many times before, and it always meant John's imminent arrival.  But John was gone.  He couldn't have come back, right?  There'd been no other signs of the Hunger's return.  But what else could do this?

He was pulled from his thoughts at the sight of Davenport running the palm of his hand over the axe's blade.  Blood welled up from the shallow wound.

"Utirhant!" said the voice, which was definitely coming from the axe.  "What in Garl's name are you doing?!  Not cool!"

But Davenport ignored the axe, and held out his bleeding hand to Merle.  "See if you can heal it," he said.

Merle took Dav's hand in his own soulwood hand, halfway reluctant to cast.  What if it failed?  The thought terrified him.  But a hundred years of crisis had taught him that there was no point in waiting to find out the worst.  Better to confront it head on, learn what you were dealing with. 

"I cast Cure Light Wounds," he said. 

Soft amber light flowed like veins through his wooden arm, from his elbow up to his fingertips.  The shallow cut glowed briefly, and then closed.  Merle raised an eyebrow.             

Davenport regarded his newly-healed hand, brow furrowed.  "Doesn't make any sense," he muttered. 

"Well, looks like the meeting's over," said Merle, raising his voice to address the whole room, which had fallen into a stunned silence as every cleric there had been rebuffed in their communing attempts.  "Guess we'll just have to decide what to call our group another day.  For now, I think it's safe to say we've got a bigger crisis on our hands."

"Wait," said Dav, "did you spend six hours just on the topic of _what to call your council?_ "

Merle shrugged.  "What can I say?  We like taking things slow."

Davenport looked like he was going to make a comment, but he shook his head instead.  "We need to call a family meeting, Merle," he said in a low voice.  "All seven of us, plus--well, if you could draw in Kravitz, he might have some insight.  And…and Angus too, I suppose.  He's a sharp cookie."

Merle raised both eyebrows.  "Kravitz, too?  How many gods do you think this is affecting?"

Davenport glanced out the window, and his face was grim.  "All of them," he said.

 

#

 

Kravitz pressed his hand against the cold stone panel.  "Kravitz," he said aloud, "Reaper Class A.  Accompanied by Lup, Reaper Class B-Probationary, and Barry Bluejeans, Reaper Class B-Probationary." 

The massive obsidian doors swung open, flooding the antechamber with the cool white light of the Raven Queen's throne room. 

The silence was deafening.  The vast room's white-marble walls usually cast the presence of the Raven Queen in stark contrast, a sharp black form on a throne of grey stone.  And the ravens who were extensions of her being flooded the air like ash, cawing wisdom in their bird-voices.  But now the chamber was thick with silence, and the throne was empty.

He began to cross the chamber.  His footfalls sounded loud and hollow in the echoing space.

"She's gone," said a lugubrious voice.  From beside the throne, Mr. Nim appeared.  The Queen's Archivist was as thin as ever, his suit painfully black against the white marble, his hair a shock of white like sunlit snow.

Kravitz frowned.  "She can't just vanish," he said.  "She's a goddess--one of the most powerful goddesses in creation!"

"Nevertheless," said Mr. Nim.

"I, uh, don't suppose you've found any clues as to what happened?" asked Barry.  He shoved his glasses up his nose.  "Geez, I'm talking like it's a murder mystery around here," he added.  "Sorry--" 

"No, no, it's a good point," said Lup.  "Kravitz is right, gods don't just _disappear._   Something happened, and whatever it was, it had to be hella big.  There's gotta be something around here that could give us a clue."

Kravitz narrowed his eyes.  He hated having to ask this, but…"Did you check the Book of Dusk?"

Mr. Nim drew in a sharp breath.  "I was headed there now," he said. 

He nodded, and gestured for Barry and Lup to follow.  "We'll start there, then."  Turning to his trainees, he added, "I hadn't thought this would come up so soon in training.  It's a book that we rarely have to consult, but…"

"Three thousand, seven hundred and sixty-two years," said Mr. Nim.  "That was the last time we used the book in its Dusk manifestation."

"Whoa, back up there," said Lup.  "Maybe start from the beginning?"

Mr. Nim raised an eyebrow.  "What have you been teaching these new ones, Kravitz?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.  "When I first started my job, the Three Books were the first thing I learned about."  He pulled a heavy key ring from his belt and unlocked a black oak door.  A faint musty odor drifted up from the dark tunnel beyond.

"You were brought on as the archivist," said Kravitz, trying to keep his annoyance out of his voice.  "But the three of us have been focused on field work.  The Book of Bounties has been our primary concern."

"Well, then."  Mr. Nim glanced at Lup and Barry, and Kravitz knew him well enough to hear the entire lecture between his words.  "Allow me."  He led them down the dark hall, which lit up with globes of silver-blue fire as they walked.  "There are three books total that concern our work here.  You know the Book of Bounties."

"And the Book of the Dead," said Lup, referring to the massive, demiplanar tome that held the names of all souls, living and dead, who otherwise did not warrant being put into the Book of Bounties, or whose bounties had been cleared.  All seven of the Birds were in there now, though Lup and Barry were still marked as Provisional, dependent on their work for the Raven Queen.

"And there is a third and final book," said Mr. Nim.  He gestured; a silvery globe drifted from the wall to hover above his hand.  He began to lead them down a long, spiraling staircase.  "The Book of Dawn and Dusk.  Watch your heads, please."

The staircase here led them down to one of the very oldest parts of the Queen's citadel.  The walls became cool, rough stone, absent of ornamentation.  Stone that existed not to comfort or to honor or even to guide, but to hold fast.  To exist, and to keep existing until the universe itself came to an end.

"It exists in two manifestations," he went on.  "The Book of Dawn records the birth or ascension of the gods themselves.  And the Book of Dusk records their deaths."

Lup and Barry glanced at each other.  Kravitz kept his mouth shut tight. 

Mr. Nim stopped at the base of the stairs, at an unassuming black door.  He unlocked it with another key from his key ring, and the sound of its tumblers turning reverberated through Kravitz's rib cage.  He began to say a prayer to the Raven Queen that he not find Her name in Her own book.  But he wasn't sure if she was even capable of hearing him anymore.

He heard Lup and Barry's collective gasp at the sight of the Book.  It hovered above a stone plinth in the center of the room, held in a beam of soft golden light.  Currently the Book of Dawn was manifest, its cover a warm brown leather marked by the image of a sun, bisected horizontally.  Mr. Nim tapped the cover; the space distorted briefly, and the book flipped, revealing a deep blue cover, with the same bisected sun.  He flipped it open.

Kravitz stood frozen to the spot, his fists clenched. 

"Hmm," said Mr. Nim.  "She's not in here.  None of them are."

Kravitz raised an eyebrow.  "Wait," he said, "what do you mean, none of them--"

And then he felt himself being _yanked_ through space, out of the Raven Queen's realm, into a room crowded with worn furniture and throw pillows and an overabundance of red.

Merle was grinning up at him.  He wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Welcome to Parley!" he said. 

 

#

 

Davenport took a deep breath and looked out over the room, at his gathered family sprawled out over the couches and chairs and pillow-piles.  Calling all of them into Parley resulted in a space that replicated the common room of the long-lost Starblaster.  The details were astonishing--right down to the white board crammed with reminders, playful insults, and the running tally of "how many non-edible objects Magnus has attempted to eat this cycle."  (The current tally was three.)  Outside the windows, Faerun's stars drifted peacefully past.

He had so many feelings about being back here, in a ghost of the ship he'd called home for a century.  But now wasn't the time to deal with those feelings.  The world was in peril--again--and they needed to get down to business.  Faerun was their home now, and damned if he or any of his family was going to risk losing it again.

"All right," he said, "if everyone will take their seats, we'll begin--"

"Hey Merle," said Taako, waving an uncertain Kravitz to sit beside him on the couch.  "I don't know what the fuck is going on or why it's so important that you needed to, uh, interrupt Poker Night, but could we get some refreshments around here?"

Davenport frowned.  His disapproval, however, did not prevent a steaming mug of coffee from appearing next to Taako.

"Does eating in Parley even count?" asked Lup.  "Also, Taako, you may wanna sit up because we have a _big_ problem.  Merle, I suppose you called us here because the Raven Queen's disappeared?"

"All the gods have disappeared," said Arumdina.

Taako spat out his coffee.  Magnus yelped and scooched away from him.

"What the _hell_?" Taako said.

"Well, they're not dead," said Lup.  "Sooo, that's good.  But the Raven Queen is definitely missing."

Davenport sighed.  "It's true," he said.  "Pan and the entire Dwarven pantheon are out of communication, too.  And I've been…"  His fingers tapped restlessly against his hip.  "I've been unable to speak to Garl.  Arumdina has confirmed that he and the entire gnome pantheon, as well as several of their allies, are…well, I should let her tell it."  He held out the axe so everyone could see her.

"Hey, everyone," she said.  "Sorry we had to meet in such shitty circumstances, but this whole thing started when--"

"Is that a talking axe?!" said Magnus, sitting up.

"Wait, now hold on, my dude!"  Taako was tugging on his braid.  "You're saying the gods have straight up disappeared, and we're getting intel from a chatty artifact?"

"You never told them about me?" Arumdina demanded.  "What the hell, Utirhant!"

Heat crawled up Davenport's neck.  "It never came up!" he snapped.  "Okay, everyone, this is Arumdina.  She's Garl Glittergold's boon companion and a talking divine axe.  Arumdina, this is everyone."

"Hello, Ms. Arumdina!" said Angus.  Apparently even worldwide divine catastrophe couldn't make him forget his manners.  "My name is Angus McDonald.  It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise, kid."

"Are you a person who's been turned into a weapon, too?" asked Magnus.  "I have one of those!"

"Yeah, no," said Arumdina.  "I was created deep in the fires of the Mithral Forge, by the cunning hands of Flandal Steelskin, to be the companion of Garl and--"

"No backstories!" Taako shouted.  "None!  I'm having none of it.  Magnus, you want to bond with Cap'nport's magical axe, you can do it _after_ we find out what the hell is going on!"

"Thank you, Taako," said Davenport.  "Arumdina, let's focus on the task at hand, okay?"

She sighed.  "Okay, but I wish I had more information than I do.  A few days ago--well, time is kind of finicky between planes, it might be closer to a few weeks in mortal time--Garl received messages of an assault happening in some of the divine realms.  An unknown force or enemy of some kind was testing borders, apparently looking for weak spots.  A handful of gods went out to meet it, to find out what sort of thing it was--but none of them returned.  They just…vanished off the radar."

The room had fallen still.

"Garl ordered Gaerdal Ironhand--he's our god in charge of war and defense--to start tracking the reported attacks and movements of this, uh, force, or whatever, as it got closer to the Golden Hills.  And then Garl received a raven, calling him to a Divine Convocation.  The gods were going to launch an all-out assault on this thing.  So he and the rest of the pantheon shored up the Hills' defenses, and went out to meet this thing.  And--we lost almost everyone.  The moment we showed up, we lost."

Kravitz, who had been silent since he arrived, sat up, and there was a desperate light in his eyes.  "But what was it?" he demanded.  His fingers tightened over the arm of the couch; his bones were beginning to show through his dark skin.

Arumdina paused.  "I didn't see it," she said.  "Garl never drew me from his backside when we were in range, I couldn't get a good look.  He retreated immediately, to try to buy a little time.  And when we were out of sight, he drew me, and told me to, well--to go to you, Utirhant."  She paused.  "I was halfway down the sky before I felt him cut off from me."

Davenport closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.  For the dozenth time in the past few hours, he reached out to Garl.  _Are you there, Garl?_ he asked. _Please answer me._

But there was no response.

"Is there anything you sensed about it?" asked Angus, already writing into a notebook on his lap.  "You might not have been able to see it directly, but as a self-aware axe with divine powers, you must have some ability to sense your environment in ways we might not even think to ask about."

Arumdina paused, considering.  "Well, whatever it was, it was big.  Massive."

"Like, the size of the Hunger?" asked Magnus.

"No, not plane-sized.  More like…the size of a city.  So, not gonna swallow the PMP anytime soon, but big enough to be pretty damn worrisome.  And the fact that Garl thought that it wouldn't even be worth it to try to attack--well, that says something too."

"Was it alive?" asked Davenport.  "Self aware?"

"I don't know.  And…this is gonna sound pretty strange, but the energy radiating off this thing…it was divine and infernal _at the same time._   And yet…neither?  Something else altogether, something that I don't even have a name for."  She paused.  "That's all I got."

"Well," said Merle, taking a deep breath.  "We saved the world once.  We can do it again."

"Yeah, no biggie!" said Magnus.  "Wait, does this mean Istus is gone, too?"

"Good point," said Davenport.  "Have you tried reaching out to her?"

"I can't cast Commune for Istus," said Merle.  "I mean, I'm her emissary but I'm a cleric of Pan.  We've only ever spoken to her in her temple."

Davenport blinked.  "Wait.  You don't just…talk to her in your head?"

Merle wasn't the only one in the room who gave him a strange look.

"No…?" said Magnus, uncertainly.  "Is that, like, a thing you can do?"  He glanced over at Lup and Barry. 

"Don't look at us!" said Lup.  "We have to create a ritual circle of five raven feathers from the wings of Her Majesty's bird-constructs to even get an audience."

"And technically, it just takes one feather to make a request," Barry added.  "But she prefers everything to be filed in quintuple."

"That sounds like a pain in the axe," Arumdina remarked.  "Garl doesn't really go in for all that formal red-tape nonsense."

Taako rolled his eyes.  "Okay, look, we'll just pop over to her temple and see if we can do any recon.  Like, she's the goddess of fate, right?  Anything that messes with the gods on this scale woulda been on her radar."

"Yeah!" said Magnus.  "Maybe she's evaded capture!"

"Good idea, Taako."  Davenport nodded.  "Arumdina, you said Gaerdal was collecting intel on this thing?  Would he have collected the information anywhere?"

"He and Garl met down in the war room of Brighthall a few times.  Not that they'd been able to come up with anything before it all went sideways.  But if there was any information we could look at, it would be there."

"Well, that doesn't help us down here," he said.  "Unless…"

"If you're going to ask, yes," said Lup, "we could totally waltz over there, and bring you along.  The scythes can take us anywhere in the celestial realms."

"Good, that's a plan," said Davenport.  "I can go with Lup, Barry, and Kravitz to Brighthall to look for whatever information we can, and then meet the rest of you in Refuge."

Kravitz wiped a hand over his mouth.  He looked ashen.  "This is bad," he said.  "Anything that could take out the gods on this sort of scale, that isn't the Hunger…I can't even conceive of it.  And the Queen…"  He ran his fingers through his long black braids.  "What the hell are we supposed to do without her?"

Taako put an arm around his shoulder.  "Babe, it's okay," he said.  "We got this.  Getting out of impossible situations is kind of our specialty."

Kravitz looked like he was about to say something.  But he just shook his head. 

"Well, we've got our plans," said Davenport.  "Lup, I'll be awaiting pickup at Bottlenose Cove.  And…"  He glanced over the room.  His eyes landed on Lucretia, who had said nothing during the entire meeting.  He crossed the common room to her side.  "You okay, Lucretia?  Anything to add?"

She shook her head.  Her lips were a hard line, and she had that distant look she got when she was deep in thought.  "I suppose I'm not sure how I can help," she said.  "I…it just occurred to me that I'm the only one of the crew who doesn't, um…have a divine patron, or the insight that that would provide."  Her fingers tightened on her staff.  "I guess I feel a little out of my depth here."

Davenport nodded.  What clerical powers she commanded were ecumenical, not tied to any one god.  She had, for a very long time now, put most of her faith in herself.  "There is something you can do," he said.  "It won't be long now before more people start realizing what's happened.  And who knows how the general populace is going to react?  They might think the Hunger's returning, and then we'll have widespread panic on our hands.  But the Bureau of Benevolence has earned a lot of goodwill through its work.  You have more political and social connections than any of us.  It's time to use them.  We need you down on the ground, speaking to Sterling and others in vital positions of power.  We'll need allies, who can keep an eye on things and manage information and try to keep things from getting out of hand."

Lucretia blinked at him.  He met her gaze evenly.  They both knew what he was asking her to do. 

At her hesitation, he added, "Frankly, you're the best suited to this task out of any of us here."

Taako said nothing.  Davenport could feel his chilly gaze from across the room, but he did not acknowledge it.

"All right," she said, very quietly.  "I'll do it."

Davenport nodded.

 

#

 

Far below the streets of Neverwinter, gears began to turn.  Runes glowed on the surface of a thick iron door, as a dozen locks clicked open in quick succession.  The door slid open with a grind of metal on stone, flooding the hallway with the clack and whoosh of an enormous printing press.

A wiry, unassuming man in spectacles slipped into the room, pausing only to make sure the door was secured behind him.  A tall, beefy aarakocra with shining white plumage was already down on the press floor, a Stone of Farspeech pressed against his ear.  He thumbed the stone, which stopped glowing, and slipped it into his pocket.

"So," said Jeff Angel.  "I just got off the stone with Dad, and…yeah.  It's gonna be a big one."

The wiry man pushed his spectacles up his nose and glanced at the press.  He nodded soberly.  "Let's get to work then."


	3. Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merle makes the call. Magnus packs his craft supplies. Davenport gets a hug.

Merle thumbed the Stone of Farspeech in his hands.  He forced himself to dial the number that he always dreaded calling.  It rang a few times, thrumming softly between his fingers.  He began to pray to Pan that the call wouldn't go through for one reason or another.  Then he wondered if Pan could even hear his prayers.  Then he decided to pray anyway, just in case. 

If there was a time in his life he could use some divine intervention, now would be nice.

The stone glowed softly.  "Merle," said Hekuba's voice.  She sounded tired.

"Hey, Hekuba," he said.  "I, uh, hope I didn't catch you at a bad time?"

The silence that stretched from the stone was answer enough.  It was always a bad time, with Hekuba.  She'd warmed up to him a little, after hearing the Story, but only a little.  She'd seen him at his worst, and she didn't seem to be letting go of that anytime soon.

"What is it, Merle?" she asked.  "Are Mavis and Mookie okay?"

"Yeah, they're fine," he said.  "But, uh, well, something's come up and I need to head over to Refuge for a few days.  Was gonna take the kids on a little adventure up to Woven Gulch.  And…well, since you said you wanted to know whenever we're going on an Extreme Teen Adventure…"  He trailed off, let the sentence hang between them.

"Woven Gulch?  The place with the massive purple worms?  That Woven Gulch?"

He frowned.  "The worms are all right," he said.  "We're buddies!  After we reunited the mother with her kids, she became our buddy."  Well, strictly speaking, maybe not buddies…but she didn't incinerate them, which was a start.  He was Merle Highchurch, befriender of all, including purple worms.

But not including Hekuba.  She sighed and said, "All right.  Keep them safe, and call me if there's any trouble."

"Will do," he said, sighing as well.

Hekuba hung up the call.

Well.  Forget her, then.  He didn't need to impress her.  His kids thought the world of him, right?  He glanced out the window at Mavis, who sat on the porch, swinging her legs over the sand.  She was staring with worry at the sky.  And Mookie was in the living room, begging for a closer look at Dav's talking axe, while Dav tried to do damage control with the gathered clerics.

Okay, so…maybe he still had a ways to go.  But hell, here was a chance for him to show the kids what he could really do. 

"Mavis?  Mookie?" he called.  "Get your things packed, we're heading over to Refuge!"

Mookie shot out of the living room, nearly bowling him over.  "Ooh, Refuge!" he said.  "What're we gonna do there?"

He beamed down at his little fireball, and ruffled his hair with one broad hand.  "You're gonna get to watch your old man save the world!"

 

#

 

Magnus popped back from Parley at the card table in his living room.  Taako popped in across from him.  Avi, Carey and Killian stood off to the side, looking worried.  The trio practically rushed them, asking what had happened. 

"Look, it's no biggie," said Taako.  "Apparently a bunch of gods have gone missing, so we gotta go save the world _again._   Like, we just cleaned up this place?"

"That…sounds really bad," said Avi.

"Oh my gods," said Carey.  Killian squeezed her hand.

"Yeah," said Magnus, running his fingers through his hair, "I'm not sure if they can hear you right now.  Which…I admit, it _sounds_ scary.  But we got this."  He looked around the living room, which was stockpiled with snacks since it was his turn to host Poker Night.  "Uh…sorry to leave you hanging like this, but I guess Poker Night is cancelled."

The trio looked at each other.  "Anything we can do to help?" asked Killian.

"Well, Lucretia's handling stuff on the ground, so…I'd say check in with her?"  Magnus was already moving around the room, picking up things he'd need for an adventure.  He always kept his rucksack and weapons not far from the door, in case he needed to leave on a trip in a relative hurry.  Road snacks, rope, Railsplitter, the Flaming Raging Poisoning Sword of Doom...He also grabbed Johann's leash.  He'd need to run his good good dog down to the school so he could be looked after while Magnus was away. 

He paused, one hand halfway to the Chance Lance.  The memory of Istus's temple came back to him all at once, the sound of stonework collapsing all around him in a slow fireball while the goddess smiled at them serenely. 

It hadn't really sunk in what was happening, but now it did.  To think that Istus might be _gone_ , that anything could touch that untouchable divine force was…

It wasn't the same as the Hunger.  The Hunger had swallowed the planes in tar, cutting off the gods from the Prime Material Plane.  But this time, something had made the gods _go away._   How was that even possible?  And if it was something as powerful as the Hunger...it had taken them a _century_ to figure out how to stop that.  Right now, this moment, was just like those first couple of cycles, when they knew something massive and terrible had happened, _was happening,_ but they didn't know what it was, or what to do about it.

And this time around, they weren't getting any resets.

He slid the Chance Lance into its holder on the back of his rucksack, and took one more look around the living room.  In one corner, there was a basket of yarn, a pair of knitting needles, and an unfinished scarf.  He'd picked up knitting as a way to relax after the Day of Story & Song, and Merle and Taako had fallen into the habit of knitting a few rows now and again, whenever they visited.  The scarf remained unfinished, and now it snaked along the wall, probably a good twelve feet long by now.

"Taako," he said, scooping it all up, "I'm taking the scarf with me."

Taako grunted in acknowledgment.  "Yeah," he said.  "Just in case."

 

#

 

Mr. Nim was waiting for them when they popped back in from Parley.

"Well," said Lup.  "That happened."

Mr. Nim raised an eyebrow.

"So, let's start with the obvious question," she continued.  "How long can the Raven Queen stay missing before the system starts breaking down?"

Kravitz narrowed his eyes.  "I thought you said not to worry," he said.  "That your family could find them!"

"Oh true, natch," said Lup.  "But we should be prepared for any worst-case scenarios."  After a hundred cycles of dealing with the Hunger, she and her family had long since stopped mincing around worst-case scenarios.

Mr. Nim sighed, and it sounded like a dusty tome being closed.  "What is a world without proper and inevitable death?" he asked.  "The Queen has been around since the first living creature came into being."

"Yeah, so, poetic but unhelpful," said Lup.

Mr. Nim frowned, ever so slightly.

Barry opened his hand and summoned his scythe, then caused it to disappear again.  "Our reaper powers are still working, though," he said.  "Which could mean--well, I don't know what it means, but if we want to run some experiments, it could be a starting point…"  He rubbed the back of his head, looking uncertainly around the room.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Lup still found Barry so cute when he got all science-nerdy.  "Hmm, why don't we put a pin in that?" she said, as eager as she was to also test exactly how much the Queen's absence was affecting or not affecting them.  "We'll grab Davenport and head over to his god's place, and see if we can't rustle up some more clues.  Hey Mr. Nim, you think you can hold down the fort here?"

Kravitz and Barry winced.  Mr. Nim raised another snow-white eyebrow.  "I am the Queen's archivist," he said.  "I do not need a probationary trainee reaper to tell me how to keep things running smoothly here."

Lup opened her mouth to snap something back, but Kravitz stepped in front of her.  "That's enough," he said.  "We can't waste time here.  Let's just grab the captain and go to Brighthall."  He turned to Mr. Nim.  "Thank you for your help," he said, sketching a quick bow to the old man.

She shared a quick glance at Barry.  Barry shrugged, seemingly just as baffled.  She hadn't thought the role of Archivist was necessarily some high-level role that required kowtowing to.  But then, the Queen did love her paperwork.   

Kravitz pulled out his scythe and sliced through the air, opening a path to a quiet beach and a distant, sprawling mansion with lights shining in every window.  Davenport was standing not far away.  He looked up at them and waved.

"Good luck," said Mr. Nim as they stepped through.  "You're going to need it."

 

#

 

"Welcome to Brighthall!" Arumdina sang, as Davenport stepped through the rift into his god's realm.  Barry and Lup followed, with Kravitz bringing up the rear to seal the rift behind them.  "Please wipe your feet and try not to get, like, raven feathers all over everything.  Black really isn't the color around here."

It definitely wasn't.  The warm banquet hall was built of jewel-embedded stones that glittered in the light of a giant gold chandelier.  Bright silk banners in jewel-toned patterns of stripes and diamonds lined the walls.  Golden plates and cups lined a huge banquet table.  The floor was covered in a deep emerald carpet embroidered with fanciful designs in gold thread.  Tall, mullioned windows looked out over seemingly endless wooded hills, where even the green treetops were edged in gold.

"It's really, uh, bright?" said Barry, shielding his eyes after the gloom of the Raven Queen's fortress.  "Tasteful, but very, very bright."

"Well, you know how gods are," said Lup.  "They pick a decoration theme and run with it."

"Listen, I'm not gonna lie," said Arumdina, "if it glitters and/or it's made of gold, Garl likes it.  Don't touch!"

She said those last words too late, as Kravitz picked up a silver box from the table and opened it.  Instantly, confetti exploded from the ceiling and a loud, bouncy fanfare began to play.  Colorful streamers shot out of the box with such speed that Kravitz dropped it in surprise, reverting to his skeleton form.  The box hit the floor and snapped shut.  The music and confetti stopped immediately.

"What…was _that?"_ Kravitz asked, pulling a streamer from one skeletal eye socket.

"That was Garl's party-in-a-box," said Arumdina in an annoyed voice.  "Which is why I suggest not touching anything around here."

Davenport picked up the box and set it back on the table, taking care to keep the lid closed.  The music had seemed uncomfortably loud in the empty hall.  He'd seen this place abandoned before, and it was always because the Hunger was on its way.

But those had been different Brighthalls, in different planar systems.  And it occurred to him that he'd never been to _this_ Brighthall before.  He took another look around, trying to take it all in, trying to acclimate himself to the idea that this one was his, now.

"Okay, so the war room is down the hall to the left—Utirhant, could you point for me?  I don't have hands, thanks—and down a set of stairs."

Davenport shrugged and led the way.

"Utirhant?" Lup asked suddenly.  "Is that you, Cap?"

"Yeah," he said.  "That's, uh, the name that Garl gave me.  The original Garl, I mean.  From Tosun."  It sounded so strange, hearing this particular nickname coming from one of his crew.  "It means, ah.."  He paused, trying to think of the best way to translate it into Common.  "A move in a game, or a toss of the dice, that's unexpected or surprising." 

"And we just kept it up," said Arumdina.  "It seemed fitting, since you did just pop into our universe out of nowhere."

Kravitz took another look around.  "This place seems unusually empty," he remarked.  "Does Garl not have servants around here?  Assistants, acolytes, petitioners?"

"Most daily upkeep tasks are done by automaton," said Arumdina, "and they're all powered down right now.  As for acolytes, most of them just pass into the Sea of Souls.  It's extremely rare that a follower of his sticks around after death to keep working for him.  Usually it's former emissaries, and they're…well, the moment he suspected things were going down, he put their souls somewhere safe.  We shouldn't have to worry about them, but they're not gonna be very helpful at the moment."

"Oh.  I see."

"Yeah, death isn't exactly Garl's domain.  So if you're gonna stick around with him, it's because you've—you okay, Utirhant?"

Davenport had paused in the middle of the hallway, rubbing the back of his head.  "Oh…yeah, I'm fine," he said.  "It's just odd.  I've been to Brighthall a few times but never this Brighthall, and it's throwing off my sense of direction.  This place seems so _familiar_ , but then I look and see something that's…not where I expect it to be."

"So, it's familiar but not _too_ familiar?" Barry offered.  "Like walking into an old home and discovering that someone's rearranged the furniture and painted all the rooms."

"Y-yeah," he said, nodding.  "That's…actually a really good way of putting it, Barry."

Barry's cheeks flushed.  "Yeah, I, uh…I got that sense a lot when I was, uh, alive without my memories.  I would just have these _moments_ of sudden almost-familiarity that were…"  He opened and closed his empty hand.  "Did you, uh, get that a lot?"

Davenport bit his lip, and shook his head.  "No," he said, after a moment.  "Because nothing was familiar at all.  Everything was just…new to me."

"That's rough, buddy," said Arumdina, after a moment of awkward silence.

"Yeah, Cap, sorry for bringing it up—"

"It's all right, Barry."  He'd reached the end of the hall.  To his left was a set of narrow stairs; at its bottom landing, a thick iron door stood partially open. 

The War Room beyond it was downright austere, compared to the rest of the place.  It was small, and dominated by a square table covered in several marked-up maps.  More maps were pinned to the walls.

"Okay," said Arumdina, "so the maps on the table are where Gaerdal was tracking this enemy's movements in all the different celestial realms.  He hadn't collected enough data at the time to really detect a pattern, but we can build on his and Garl's notes.  Maybe we can figure something out."

Davenport glanced at the map on top, and the fine ink paths drawn across it.  The margins of the map were covered in delicate script in a form of Old Gnomish.  A quick scan didn't make anything jump out at him, but he rolled it up along with the others, and carefully slid them all into a spare map tube.  Time enough to get them back to the group for study.  "Excellent.  Anything else here that might help?"

Arumdina paused for a moment.  "Just one, uh, being we can talk to, who might have something useful to say.  And before I summon her, just…be cool, okay?  She's…kind of unnerving to look at."

Davenport shrugged.  He'd seen quite a lot in his life; there was very little that could surprise him at this point.  And he suspected that the Reaper trio with him were the same.

Arumdina took a big breath—impressive, for someone with no lungs—and shouted, _"Dairwin!  You here?"_

Light burst in the middle of the room.  It shivered and twisted before finally settling on a shape.  And Davenport's first thought was, _What the hell am I looking at?_  

It was…a gnome?  Sort of?  But a gnome who looked like she'd been stretched tall like putty and then caught in mid-transformation into…something else.  Her body was made of shimmering golden light, and four thick, furry arms hung at her sides, each ending in a clawed, paw-like hand.  Pearlescent fangs jutted from her mouth, and she had three eyes:  two diamonds, and a ruby right in the middle of her forehead.  She hovered a few feet in the air, and a gnomish tail almost twice as long as Davenport's twisted behind her, ending in a small white flame.

She stared blankly ahead.  _"Where is Garl,”_ she said.  Her mouth didn't move as she spoke; the sound seemed to reverberate from her whole being.

Davenport stared.

"What.  Is.  That," said Kravitz.

"Everyone, this is Dairwin," said Arumdina.  "She's, uh, a celestial being who works for Garl.  Dairwin, this is…everyone."

_"Where is Garl,"_ she repeated.

"Garl is…indisposed," said Arumdina.  "But this here is his emissary, Utirhant, so maybe you can be a pal and help him help Garl?"

Dairwin's gaze turned slowly towards Davenport.  He took an involuntary step back.  Her name was a pun in Gnomish, a play on the word for mirth, but this being looked like she had never smiled in her life.

Kravitz frowned.  "I've interacted—at length—with every type of celestial being imaginable," he said, "and I have never--her aural signature is like nothing I've ever seen!  What is she, some sort of archon?  A previously unknown classification of aasimar?"

"Listen, it's a long story and really not mine to tell," said Arumdina quickly.  "Just be cool for two minutes, okay?"

Davenport couldn't look away.  He kept staring at her, unable to shake the feeling of…familiarity?  That despite having never seen her, despite never even _hearing_ about her, he was supposed to know who she was.

Slowly, she reached out one paw.  He found himself reaching for it, setting his hand among long curving claws that looked like they could rend stone.  She placed another paw on his cheek.  Her touch was warm and made his skin tingle.

Before he knew what was happening, she drew him into an embrace, holding him with three of her furry arms.  With her fourth arm, she slowly stroked the top of his head.  A deep rumble came from her chest. 

But he wasn't scared.  He leaned against her, and her hold on him tightened, just a little, in a way that made him feel safe.  He thought, _Garl._

"Is this, uh…a thing that happens here?" Barry asked.

"Davenport, you okay?" came Lup's voice.  "You can gesture if you need to."

He gave her a thumbs-up.  "Yeah, I'm good."

"I swear, Dairwin, if you harm a hair on his head--"  Arumdina's voice came from just past his shoulder.

"It's okay," he said.  "I'm okay."  He pulled away a little, and Dairwin loosened her grip.  "Why do you feel so _familiar?_ "

Dairwin said nothing.

"That's because you both have some of Garl's divine power in you," said Arumdina. 

Oh.  No wonder he felt so connected to her.  They were strings resonating on the same note.  He stepped back, and gave her a brief nod.  Dairwin returned to hovering in place, staring at nothing, as if awaiting her next command.

He cleared his throat.  "Arumdina, you said she can help us?"

"Hopefully.  Garl sent her as a scout to check out what she could, but not to engage, just to watch at a distance.  Dairwin, did you see anything about the force at the border of the celestial realms?"

"Unknown force detected at mark-point 3.27 south," she boomed in a deep monotone, "bearing northeast at eleven arcs per row.  Size rating, colossal-plus.  Intent, unknown.  Alignment, unavailable.  Celestial classification: sub-divine, aural footprint neutral.  Tracking attempt failed.  Known immunities: tracking."

Davenport glanced at Kravitz.  "Did that, uh, mean anything to you?"

Kravitz frowned.  "That it's fast, huge, and untrackable," he said.  "Not much more than we already know."

"Barry?"

The scientist was deep in thought, one hand absently rubbing his stubbly chin.  "Huh?  Nothing, I just…something's tickling the back of my brain, here.  Hopefully it'll come to me soon."

"Well then, I think we've got everything here we came for!" said Arumdina, speaking quickly in a too-chipper voice.  "So why don't we get out of here?  Dairwin, thank-you-you're-dismissed!"

Dairwin stared at the gathered group, then winked out.

Kravitz shrugged and pulled out his scythe.  "To Refuge, then."  He sliced open the air, and sunlight poured in from the other side of the rift.  A hot breeze was already stirring.

As they stepped through into the desert sunlight, Barry snapped his fingers, and his eyes lit up.  "I knew she seemed familiar!" he said.  "Dairwin--her aura--"

The others turned to look at him.

"She's almost," he said, "but not quite, some kind of lich."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, I'm currently building up my buffer (currently I'm midway through writing chapter 7) and at my current pace, I think I can safely aim for two updates a week. So for the foreseeable future, I'm going to be aiming to update on Wednesdays and Sundays.


	4. Fateful Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merle turns around. Taako conducts an interview. Magnus performs an experiment.

He expected runners, when he took this job.  It was inevitable.  People were drawn to those with big plans, big ambitions.  But the moment the water started to boil, there were always a few who'd panic and make a break for it.  He'd seen it all before.

He and his men took care of it.  That was his arrangement with the cleric:  he'd provide protection, and in return, the cleric would give him power and opportunity—and not a small amount of gold.  Three things he always wanted more of.  And if 'protection' involved taking out the occasional ex-follower who might spill some secrets to the public, well…who was he to argue?

He usually sent his men after these little cowards.  It was mosquito-squatting, and usually beneath him.  But there was something about this particular target that he wanted to see to personally.  An absolute worm of a man, so aggressively bland and self-effacing that the thought of knocking him to the cobblestones and driving a knife through his gut would be a pleasure.

The truth was, he'd hated this guy the moment he'd wandered into one of the cleric's recruitment meetings and said, with genuine surprise, "This isn't the book club!  My name's Gerald Loggins."

He wasn't surprised the guy had run.  Sure, he'd stuck around for a few meetings, nodded along seemingly out of politeness.  He even seemed to take some of the cleric's messages to heart. 

But then the gods had begun to disappear.  And right on schedule, Gerald Loggins was one of the first to make a break for it.  "I don't think I wanna be a part of this!" he said, raising his volume to almost indoor-voice levels.  A few others left after him, but the vast majority stayed, fear having bolted their feet to the floor.  He sent his men after the others, but Loggins he followed, out into the darkened streets of Goldcliff.

A passing storm of warm spring rain had just soaked the city, and the cobbles steamed in its wake.  He slipped through the darkened alleys like a man made half of shadows, following the distant splash of panicked footsteps dashing heedless through puddles.  Loggins ran less like a bull and more like a confused dog through the proverbial china shop, panting and whining and making a horrible racket.  Probably never had to physically exert himself a day in his life.  He almost felt sorry for the guy.

Almost.

Then Loggins made a fatal mistake, and turned down into a dead-end alley.  His panicked footsteps came to a halt.

"Guess our book club wasn't to your taste," he said, striding casually down the alley after him.  Loggins whirled in place, as if an exit would present itself.  But none did.  "Unfortunately, you'll still have to pay your dues."  He drew his sword from its sheath, slowly, taking pleasure in the way Loggins' eyes widened in mortal panic.

"Look, I'm really sorry," Loggins stuttered.  "I just—I don't think, uh—this is very much not in the spirit of—what I'm trying to say is—oh boy, please don't kill me—"  He was backed up against the brick wall.  His mouth opened, drawing breath for a scream.

He grabbed Loggins by the throat, pulled back his sword for a nice good gut strike--

A bird launched itself at his face.  "Run, mister!" a high-pitched voice cried.  "Run!"

He staggered backwards, trying to knock the bird aside, but it was too damn quick.  He squinted, trying to protect his eyes.  In the dim moonlight, he could barely make out patches of red fluttering around him.

It dodged another swipe of his hand and pecked him hard on his forehead.  "Damn bird!" he growled. 

"I said _run_ , mister!" came the voice.  And he was knocked aside as Loggins ran past him, screaming for the night watch.  Damn it.  He spun on his heel and tried to go after him, but the bird stayed in front of him, launching attacks with beak and talon, herding him back.

He swiped an arm out, and smacked the bird in one wing.  It fell to the cobblestones, fluttering desperately but unable to catch air.

He heard shouts in the distance.  Lantern lights.  He swore a stream of curses under his breath, most of them directed at Loggins, and grabbed a rainwater pipe.  He wasn't as young as he used to be, but he still had enough in him to scale the two-story building and be gone before the night watch reached the alley.

Loggins had escaped.  He couldn't let that stand.  Not now, not when he was so close to a chance at real power again.

He turned, and headed back to base.

 

#

 

"Don't look now, my dudes," said Taako, "but I think we're being followed."

Magnus turned away from the window, pulled out of whatever worrying line of thought was eating at him.  Merle looked up from his Extreme Teen Bible, his brow furrowed.  He glanced quickly across the aisle, where Mookie had his nose pressed against the windows, staring at the landscape rushing past the train to Refuge.  Mavis was reading the latest Caleb Cleveland: Teen Cop adventure with a quill in hand, taking notes and underlining clues as she went.

And then he turned around, like a dingus.

"I told you not to look," Taako snapped.  "Ugh, now she sees us!"

Halfway down the car, a smile spread across the face of a dwarven woman.  Taako didn't know who she was, but he didn't like that fucking shit-eating grin.  She slapped her knee as if coming to a decision, and got up to approach them.

"Merle Highchurch!" she said.  "Fancy meeting you here!"

Merle's eyes widened.  "Oh hey," he said, "uh…you…" 

She rolled her eyes.  "Branda Stonecleft," she supplied.  "Cleric of Hanseath?"  She gestured to the tankard hanging from her belt.

"Oh, right!"  He glanced at Taako, who shrugged.  If this was a buddy of Merle's, Merle could handle it.  "What, uh, brings you out to Refuge?"

She laughed.  "You, of course!  And you two."  She pointed to Taako and Magnus.  "The Seven Birds off to save the world again?  Who wouldn't want front row seats to that?"

Taako raised an eyebrow.  "Look, lady, this isn't a--we're not on display here.  Much as we love our fans, we're going into possibly life-threatening adventures and we don't need bystanders around to see us when we--"  He was about to say "fuck up," but caught himself.  He switched his tone carefully.  "I mean, you know, it takes a lot of concentration and focus to do what we do, and we don't want others around who might get hurt, when faced with the, uh, eldritch horrors we alone can face.  But if you subscribe to our official fan club, you'll receive updates all the time, as well as some exclusive swag you can't find anywhere else.  And it only costs a small monthly payment--a token, if you will, just to cover shipping."

Branda gave him an even look.  "I'm not coming along to watch," she said.  "I'm coming to _help._ "

Merle frowned.  "Well, we've already got a good thing going, the three of us," he said, looking at Taako and Magnus for confirmation. 

"And what sort of skills are you offering, that we should consider you?" Taako asked, slipping into his 'disinterested interviewer' manner.  He checked his nails.

She grinned.  "I'm glad you asked!" she said, slipping uninvited onto the bench next to Merle.  "I'm a cleric of Hanseath.  We do two things, and we do them damn well.  First, I'm an excellent healer--"

"You're hired," said Taako.

"Wait, _what?!_ " said Merle.

Branda nudged him in the ribs, like they were old buddies.  "Hey, they're just joshin' ya!  Besides, of all the things you did in the Story, healing was the least of 'em!  You're the one who can talk to anybody!  Merle Highchurch, who discovered the beating heart of the Hunger itself!  By Hanseath's glorious beard, I'm getting worked up just thinking about it!"  She pulled the tankard off her belt.  "It's too glorious a story to tell without a good ale."  She flicked a switch on the tankard's handle.  Immediately the tankard filled to the brim with frothy ale.  She swigged down a long gulp, and wiped the froth from her mouth.

Magnus tilted his head.  "Isn't it a little early for that?" he asked.

"It's twelve o'clock somewhere," she said with a grin.  "Anyway, my second thing I'm really good at.  I'm a berserker.  Usually my order's all about the great axe, but I prefer improvised weapons.  Or good ol' fisticuffs."  She tilted her mug towards Magnus.  "Whaddaya say?"

"Hmm."  Now Magnus had his 'thinking' face on, which was really just him scrunching up his face and narrowing his eyes.  "Well, we always could use a competent woman, and I _am_ in favor of the particular cut of your jib…What are your feelings on improvised everything?"

"I'm for it!" she said, slamming her hand down on the table. 

"Oh, good!" said Magnus.  "Because we tend not to do very good with plans and just kinda act in the moment."  He scrunched up his face even harder.  "Yeah, you're in."

"Wait, don't I get a say in this?" asked Merle.  "I mean, you seem all right an' all, but—well, it seems a little suspicious that you were following us."

Branda regarded him over the brim of her tankard.  "Look, all the gods are missing," she said.  "You saying you think it's _odd_ that a cleric wants to help?"

"Well, no, but--"

"Did I mention I was the oldest of seventeen?" she added with a wink.  "I'm great with kids."

Merle opened his mouth, closed it again.  Took a deep breath.  "Okay.  Okay, fine.  We'll let you in, on a _provisional_ basis--"

"I'll take it!"  She sat up, almost but not quite upsetting her tankard, and shook all their hands.  Hers were badly callused and covered in scars. 

Taako leaned back.  "Welcome aboard, Branda," he said.  Having an extra healer/fighter on their side would be useful.  And they would definitely need someone to help lighten the mood if they were dealing with literal Ragnarok. 

And judging from the look on Merle's face, this was gonna be _hilarious_.

 

#

 

Refuge was a three-day journey from Raven's Roost.  Two days by train, and then another half day of riding, which felt like eons crawling through the flat desert landscape.  Mavis handled it like a champ, but Mookie complained endlessly and Merle kept muttering old-man complaints under his breath.  So when Taako arrived rumpled and sweaty at the little mining town, he was not prepared to deal with any shit.  He cast Disguise Self just to clean himself up before his adoring Refuge fans swarmed him, Mayor Cassidy and June and the two Istus dudes, whatever their names were again, the cleric who used to be a skeleton and his beefy brother who radiated dad-friend vibes like nobody's business.  When Taako said, "Hey, it's been a long journey and I'm starving," he was honestly surprised the man didn't reply with "Hi Starving, I'm Redmond."

"Now that's enough," said June, now in her late teens and with the confidence of someone much, much older.  "Let's not swarm our friends.  We've waited a few days, we can wait a few hours more while they catch their breaths and get some good food inta them."

The Istus cleric, Luca, glanced back towards the temple with a worried look.  But Redmond said, "That's a good point, June.  Friends, we'll be at the temple when you're ready."  He put a hand on his brother's shoulder and tilted his head in silent gesture.

June bustled them into the Davy Lamp.  Taako's bad mood vanished when he saw Kravitz sitting there with Barry, Lup, and Davenport in tow.  "Babe!" he called.  "Oh, it's been a fuckin' nightmare crawling across the desert!  I was pretty sure I was gonna die of thirst, but I knew then at least I'd get to see your face."  He threw his arms around Kravitz's shoulders.

Kravitz gave him a tight smile.  Normally he was fine with morbid humor--it came with the territory of dating the Grim Reaper--but there was a shadow behind his eyes.  Taako could feel his tension. 

"How'd it go, sweetie?" he asked.  "Learn anything useful in the celestial realms?"

Kravitz shook his head.  "Very little, I'm afraid.  We know none of the gods are dead.  And that whatever force or entity has--well, defeated them, or captured them, or sent them away--is resistant to tracking magic.  We've got some maps of its movements through the celestial planes, and Davenport's been studying those, trying to see if he can figure out where it came from or where it's going."  He gestured to the table where the gnome was squinting at a map showing an image of…something?

Taako's eyes narrowed.  The text scrawled on the map appeared to be made of shifting golden lines that squirmed as he tried to focus on them.  It wasn't the weird static effect of something erased by the Voidfish, but a different effect altogether, which made the map unreadable.  "What is going on here?" he said.  "Is that a scrambling spell?"

Davenport looked up, seemingly only noticing Taako's presence right then.  "Oh--yeah, you might not wanna stare too long, you might give yourself a migraine."  He turned his attention back to the map.

"Yeah, it's this weird effect we found out about," said Lup.  "While we were waiting for you, we've been running some experiments to find out what we can and can't do since the gods left. You know, what sort of cleric or emissary powers still work, what doesn't work."

"And we found out, kinda by accident really, that we can't read the writing of other people's gods," Barry finished, adjusting his glasses.  "I guess you have to have a connection with them in order to read anything they've written."

"So I can't read the Book of Bounties," added Davenport.  "And they can't read Garl's notes."

"Huh.  Any other useful things you learned--Maggie, what the fuck?!" he snapped, as the Chance Lance missed his head by a scant few inches and went sailing into the floorboards of the Davy Lamp's upper balcony. 

Magnus shrugged.  "I wanted to see if it still worked."  He extended his hand, and the lance went sailing back into his hand, perfectly retracing its arc.  "Yup, lance still works."

Mookie and Branda both whooped and applauded.  Even Mavis gave a gasp of surprise. 

"No, do not encourage him," said Taako.  "Also, we picked up another dwarf for our party."

Branda gave a cocky salute.  "Reporting for duty, Captain Davenport.  Arumdina."

Davenport looked up from his maps and nodded.  "Hello again, Cleric Stonecleft."

"'Sup," said Arumdina.

Taako enjoyed the irritated look on Merle's face.  Apparently Davenport had done a better job of remembering the name of someone he'd met in Merle's own house. 

"I don’t suppose you've got any neat little gadgets from Istus you wanna try?" asked Lup, as Barry scribbled down some notes.

Taako shook his head.  "Unfortunately, me and Merle got one-shots.  So, no dice."

"Speaking of dice--" Arumdina began.

_"No,"_ said Davenport.

Taako glanced at Lup, who shook her head.  Apparently he'd missed some sort of debate.

June interrupted his train of thought by approaching with a platter of sandwiches and some chilled fruit smoothies.  And not a moment too soon because Taako was about ready to faint with hunger, he could have literally _died_ and June had just saved his life.  He let her know that, effusively, many times, and she gave him a wry smile but she blushed all the same.

Taako sat back and enjoyed the food, which was delicious.  Ren had taught her well.

Later, when they were fed and washed up, he grabbed Kravitz and the rest of them and went up to the temple.  June promised to look after the kids, but Branda insisted on coming because "No way am I gonna miss this!" 

Luca and Redmond were waiting on the steps of the temple of Istus.  It was a fine building now that it was restored, with whitewashed walls and a clock tower tastefully decorated with plaster ornamentation.  The clock was not moving, though.  Its two iron hands hung low, stuck at 7:24.

"We have reason to believe Istus suspected something was going to happen," Luca said, leading them towards the front doors.  "About a month ago, one of her faithful showed up, claiming to have been called by her to undertake a great construction project within the temple.  He didn't know why, and frankly neither did we.  But it was completed just before the calamity—"

"—and we think, now," Redmond said, "that this project was built for _you."_   He pushed open the great oak doors, revealing the cool, shaded interior of the simple chapel.

Taako halted in the door.  "Oh my _gods,_ " he said, not sure whether to be appalled or thrilled at the construct that Istus had apparently special-ordered for him.

A giant fantasy gashapon machine had been built into an alcove to one side of the chapel.  And a very familiar gnome with a very long beard looked up from the desk in front of it.  His eyes narrowed.

_"You,"_ he said, and that single word dripped with unfathomable disdain.

Apparently, Leon—like Taako—was not prepared to deal with any shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a day late! And just after I'd committed to an update schedule, too... ^.^;;; Unfortunately, the wind knocked out my power yesterday afternoon and so my computer was out of commission. But hopefully that won't be a recurring issue :)


	5. The Hand of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus takes his time. Taako gets sassed. Davenport makes a request.

"So, I understand you all have met before?" asked Luca.

"Hey, Leon!" said Magnus, waving as if he and the gnome were old buddies.  "How's it hangin'?"

Leon's death-gaze turned away from Taako, and he smiled at the fighter.  "Well, other than the fact that my goddess has gone silent and we may be facing the end of days, _again_ , things have been going quite well." 

"I, uh, didn't know you were a follower of Istus," said Merle, tugging on his beard.

"Oh, of course I am!" said Leon.  "The Gashapon Machine, after all, was designed to distribute its bounties by the mechanisms of chance.  What is it, if not a shrine to Fate Herself?"  He spread his hands wide, indicating the glass sphere with its oversized capsules inside.  "And here, I have filled it with special artifacts blessed by Istus, culled from my own expansive collection as well as the temple's treasury.  This, I believe, is how She has planned to prepare you for the trials ahead." 

"Have we met?" Taako asked innocently, schooling his face into one of bland idiocy.

Leon frowned.  "We're not doing this," he said flatly.  "Your captain has informed me of your tricks, and I'm having none of it.  I don't care if you _are_ one of the saviors of Faerun."  He reached into his corduroy vest pocket and pulled out two coppery gashapon tokens.  "Now, one for you, Magnus, and one for Merle."

Oh, Leon was going _down._   Continuing to feign innocence, he let a childish whine creep into his voice.  "Don't I get one?" he asked.  "Can't I help save the world, too—"

"Knock it off, Taaco," said Davenport, his voice sharp.

"Oh, come on!" he snapped.  "I'm just tryin' ta goof."  He shot a look at Davenport, but the gnome just gave him one of his captainly stare-downs and, _gods._ Way to ruin all his fun.  "When did you two get to be so buddy-buddy?"

Davenport's eyes narrowed.  "I had friends on the moon, Taako," he said.  "Not everyone up there treated me like some kind of…of _pet._ "

Despite the desert heat, the temple was suddenly chilly.  Nobody seemed to be breathing.  Lup visibly winced. 

Taako stared at Davenport, not even sure where this had come from.  He'd thought things had been pretty chill between them—like, the good sort of chill, where they had spa dates and family dinners, and commisserated over getting their heads mutually fucked by Lucretia's redactions.  But there was no mistaking the bitterness in Davenport's words. 

"Weee-elll," said Magnus, his voice loud in the silence.  "Why don't I, uh, just put my token in—"

"Yeah, good idea," said Merle, following him to the Gashapon.  Magnus put his token in and turned the crank, and a familiar _thuk-thuk-pon_ arose from the machine's innards as a capsule about the size of a bowling ball dropped into the receptacle.

Magnus popped it open and held up the item inside.  It was a small steel bracer, about two inches wide, so not quite as big as the B.O.B. bracers they'd all had to have magically removed (thanks a lot, _Lucretia_ ).  A small clock was set into the middle, revealing gears and hands ticking away cheerfully behind a protective glass face.

"Ah!" said Leon, scurrying back to his desk to open a small tome.  Apparently the dude was just as thrilled as everyone else to have something to focus on.  "Let's see, here…that is a very special item, Magnus, and perfect for someone with your particular abilities.  It is the Tempus Bracer, and it will allow you to make full use of your skills as a chronomancer.  With Istus's blessing this time, naturally!"  He winked.

Taako sighed.  Way to give away the game.  He glanced over at the rest of his family, who were either grimacing or holding back smiles.

Magnus turned it over in his hands.  "Wait, is it like, the Temporal Chalice?"  His brow furrowed in concern.

"Not quite that powerful, thank Istus," said Leon.  "And not powered by the Light of Creation.  This will draw out your natural time sorcery in order to give you more of an advantage in battle.  While also being a striking fashion accessory, I might add."

Taako watched Magnus's face as the fighter struggled to put two and two together.  "Time sorcery?  You're saying I'm a…time sorcerer?"

Leon's eyes narrowed.  "Is this some sort of game?" he asked, suspicion creeping back into his voice.  "Surely you didn't think that the average fighter, no matter how good his skills, could somehow fit six distinct actions into a single round?"

Magnus blinked.  "You mean I'm magic?!"

Lup was the first one to break out into snorting laughter.  "Finally, he gets it!" she says, throwing up her hands.  "Praise Istus!" 

"You knew?!"

"Mags," said Taako, "we _all_ knew."

"We figured it out, like, cycle 76?" Barry added, rubbing the back of his neck and looking decently chagrined.  "We thought you knew, too, so nobody brought it up—"

"But when we realized you were clueless," Lup added, "it was so damn _funny_ that we took a bet to see how long it would take you to figure it out on your own.  We figured making the Chalice would've been a dead giveaway, but apparently it wasn't.  Speaking of…who wins the pool?"

Davenport looked up at Lup.  "Are we, uh, counting the decade?  I feel like that shouldn't count."

"Oh natch, ignoring the decade…" 

Davenport scratched his beard.  "Lucretia would have the betting pool records, so we'd need to check with her…"

Magnus looked like he was still trying to process this.  "I'm a time sorcerer…" he whispered.  Like a kid who'd just stepped into an entire candy mall.  He slipped the bracer over his wrist; it looked like a fantasy wristwatch with a particularly wide metal strap. 

Merle strode up to the gashapon and slipped his own token into the slot.  _Thuk-thuk-pon!_   An oval-shaped capsule, about as tall as he was, dropped down into the receptacle.  Inside was a gnarled wooden walking stick; the grain of the wood was the color of chocolate, but seemed to shimmer in the light with a barely-visible rainbow iridescence.

"Ah," said Leon, nodding his head and flipping through his tome.  "This is the Staff of Seasons.  Blessed by both Istus and Pan, it is said that this staff passed between them multiple times during a particularly competetive night of poker.  It is said to be able to restore landscapes left imbalanced by unnatural influences, and can tame even the wildest forces of nature."

"…Huh," said Merle.  It apparently didn't escape the dwarf, or anyone else in the room, that he'd just been handed an anti-Gaia Sash.  Woulda been damn useful three years ago.

Magnus slurped loudly from a fruit smoothie, which he definitely had not been holding a minute ago. 

"What the hell, my dude?" asked Taako.

"Oh hey, Taako," said Magnus with a grin.  "I bet you're noticing my smoothie!  I got it just a few seconds ago, when I walked over to the Davy Lamp and back here in the blink of an eye.  Because I'm a time sorcerer!" 

"I'll drink to that!" said Branda, clinking her full tankard against Magnus's glass.

Oh geez.  This was gonna get old fast.  And now he looked like a chump.  He reached into a pocket of his vest and transmuted a spare copper coin into a token.  Putting on his best above-it-all smile, he crossed over to the Gashapon and slid it into the slot.

The machine grumbled, and spat the token out at him.  He had to jerk his head to the side to avoid it smacking into his face.  He heard someone snicker behind him.

"Look, Leon," he said, whirling on the gnome, "in case you haven't noticed, uh, I'm also an emissary of Istus.  Chosen by the goddess herself to set literally all of reality back on course.  And you can't just decide to, like, withhold her blessing because you couldn't take a fucking joke."

"Oh, I'm not withholding anything," said Leon, withdrawing a third token from his pocket.  He tossed it to the floor, where it rolled to Taako's feet.  "But my therapist has advised me not to engage with you over this.  So if you want an item from the Gashapon, by all means."  He waved to the machine, a gesture of invitation.  "What you do with the token is up to you.  I'm heading over to the Davy Lamp for a drink."  And with that, he left the temple.

"Ooh, ice cold," said Lup.

He whirled on his sister.  "Really, Lulu?  You're taking his side?"

"Chill, Taako," she said.  "He was gonna figure it out eventually.  And besides, the look on your face is priceless."

"Taako, sweetie," said Kravitz, in that voice he always took when he was trying to be soothing, "just take a deep breath and let it go.  We've got a lot that needs doing, and we can't get hung up on this."

Taako took a deep breath and sighed.  It was hard to stay mad when Kravitz was making that face at him.  Besides, his poor boyfriend looked exhausted.  And here he was, trying to make it all about him.  "Okay, babe," he said, scooping up the token.  "Let's just get this over with."  He slipped it into the Gashapon Machine.  "Istus, what've ya got for your ol' boy Taako?"

The machine thunked and clunked, much louder than the first two times.  Gears squealed.  The machine shuddered.  A small capsule rolled down its throat and dropped into the receptacle, just as the internal mechanism came to a halt with an awful grinding of metal on metal.

Everyone stared at the machine.  The remaining capsules shifted and settled, and the Gashapon fell silent.

"Wait, is it broken?" asked Magnus.  "Taako, did you break it?!"

"Don't look at me!  I didn't do anything."

Luca raised his eyebrows.  "Perhaps its work is finished," he offered, but he didn't sound nearly as certain as he probably intended to.

Taako picked up the capsule and turned it over.  It was very small, fitting easily into the palm of his hand.  He popped it open.

Inside was a slip of white fabric, folded up very small.  He unfolded it, revealing an embroidery sampler that read, in finely-stitched letters, _"Sometimes, We Just Need to Say We're Sorry."_

Taako stared at it, reading it three times before it really sank in.  He turned towards Luca, who was already trying to flip through Leon's tome in search of 'fabric scrap' or something similar.  But Taako already knew.  Other than the faint trace of Istus's power in the fabric, this had no magic.  It looked like any old sampler intended to be hung up on the wall of a kitchen.  She had no special artifact of power for him, only a message.

He ground his teeth.  How was this supposed to help anyone?

"Fine," he said, stuffing it into his pocket.  He took a deep breath.  "Davenport, I'm…really sorry about the way I treated you when I was on the moon.  I was…I dunno, I guess I was just fuckin' embarrassed about it, so I didn't bring it up.  But I'm sorry."

The machine shuddered, and the capsules shifted suddenly.  As if something stuck inside had partly slipped free.  Luca and Redmond looked at each other.

What, was he supposed to just apologize?  Was that it?  He rolled his eyes heavenward.  "Geez, okay, um…Merle, I'm sorry for calling you short all the time.  And Mags?  Uh, is there anything I've done that you need an apology for?"

"Uh, no?" said Magnus, who was now wearing oversized sunglasses and Cassidy's ridiculous mayoral top hat.

"Fuck.  Uh, Lup, I'm sorry for not realizing you were stuck in an umbrella sooner, and, uh, Barry, I'm sorry for thinking you were evil?  Does that count?"  He glanced at the machine, but it made no further noises.

"I don't think those are things you need to apologize for," said Lup.

Taako threw his hands in the air.  "Well, I'm not gonna go on a world tour just…lookin' for folks I need to apologize to!  And some of them were fuckin' assholes anyway, and I stand by my actions!  What, you want me to dig up _Jenkins_ so I can apologize for ragging on him about his spell slots?"

"Please don't do that," said Krav.

"Taako, a word," said Davenport.  He tilted his head and stepped off to one corner of the chapel.  Taako followed, hands deep in his pockets.  His stomach was tight with embarrassment.

"Yeah, Cap?" he asked, his voice low.

Davenport rubbed his beard.  "Your apology is accepted," he said.  "And honestly, I, uh, probably shouldn't have thrown that at you out of nowhere.  I should've just…talked to you about it."  He sighed.  "I'm trying to get better at that, I really am."

"I know."

Davenport hesitated.  "Look," he said, "Leon was kind to me.  Even when I…struggled.  And he was kind to you, too.  For the same reason."

Taako's ears flattened.

"Look, you know I enjoy your goofs.  But…I don't think people should suffer for being kind."  He shook his head.  "I'm not your captain, so I can't order you to do anything.  But as your friend, I'd like you to think about it."

Taako glanced over his shoulder at the Gashapon.  "Fine," he said.  "I'll think about it."

"Thank you, Taako."

He never could say no to Davenport.  So he thought about it, for all of two minutes.  And he decided that if Istus wanted to sass him from the past and just give him a sampler with an inspirational message on it, then that was what he'd take.  The Gashapon had served its purpose, and he didn't need to humiliate himself in front of Leon just to fix it again.  Let _him_ fix it.  Taako had better things to do, like, oh, saving the world.

Kravitz gave him a small smile when he returned to the group.  "Everything okay, honey?"

Taako put on his best devil-may-care smile.  "Sure, babe," he said.  Inside, he wanted nothing more than to get out of Refuge as fast as possible.

 

#

 

Magnus finished his smoothie while Taako and Davenport chatted in the corner.  "So," he said, trying to break the awkward silence, "is Paloma around?  We've got these gifts and they're like, super nice, but we could probably use a hint about where to go next."

"Not that we need a hint," said Merle.  "But it would be nice."

"Oh definitely."

"That sounds rad," said Lup.  "I've been wanting to meet her in person.  I was stuck in an umbrella last time, and I can't tell you how aggravating it was to see those scones and not be able to get my munch on."

Luca and Redmond shared a look.  "Unfortunately, Paloma's out of town," said Luca. 

"Visiting friends, I think she said," Redmond added.

"But!  Never you fear, because she _did_ leave something for you!"  Luca pulled a small prophecy crystal out of his pocket, just as Taako and Davenport returned to the group.

Magnus reached out for it.  "So do we just…crack it open now, or is it supposed to go off on its own, or what?"

Luca lifted a finger.  "All things in due time," he said.  "I'm sure the crystal will break when it was meant to break."  He handed it over to Magnus.

He wasn't sure what exactly happened, whether Luca had mis-aimed dropping it into his palm or Magnus had fumbled, but the crystal slipped past his fingers and shattered on the floor.

And then they were in a kitchen.  A halfling woman stood at the counter, kneading dough between her small hands.  The kitchen seemed built for her, with the cabinets and counter the right size for a halfling, but Magnus didn't feel cramped at all.  Like the kitchen was sized for him, too.  

The halfling woman looked up through the kitchen window, at a strange red light that was growing quickly on the horizon.  She dropped what she was doing, turned, and ran right through him.  He whirled to face her, watched her dart through an open door and disappear into a bright light.

Magnus stood staring at the open door, unable to move.  The image of her face was imprinted on his brain with bittersweet clarity.  She'd seemed to glow from within, radiating warmth and love and _home_.  He hadn't felt this warm and welcome since…

Since Raven's Roost.  Since Julia.

He blinked, surprised to find tears rolling down his cheeks.  The light beyond the open door faded, revealing a dizzying bird's eye view of drifting clouds and the distant green continent of Faerun itself. 

And then the vision faded.  He was standing in the temple again.

"What was that?" he asked, still feeling halfway out of his body.  Not really expecting an answer.  Just wanting to hold this feeling for a little while.

"I think," said Kravitz, cautiously, "we just saw a goddess escape to Faerun."


	6. Power Vacuum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davenport sets sail. Magnus works on his pick-up lines. Lucretia makes her case.

Gerald Loggins had escaped him.  But it wouldn't be for long.  He hurried over the rooftops of Goldcliff, making only a slight detour to leave a message for one of his spies.  One way or the other, he always got his target.

By the time he returned to base, most of his men had already come back, their targets dispatched without trouble.  A few were still out trailing their targets, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to strike.  Those who had remained behind reported that the flock of supplicants was still largely intact, waiting for word from High Empyreal Wick, who had not emerged from his meditation chamber for hours.

He entered the chamber.  Wick was muttering over his shrine, exhortations in some dark language or other; the air was thick with incense.  He knew the cleric was aware of his presence.  But he waited with a patience he'd cultivated over long years.  Briefly, he debated the merits of stabbing Wick in the back right now, and taking advantage of the confused circumstances to seize control of the young but growing flock.  But he decided against it.  The flock was a bit _too_ fragile right now, too easily spooked.  He needed more time to establish himself, to prove himself as a person they could trust.  To let the Church of the Cleansing Fire find its footing in this new and uncertain world.

"Brother Fury," said Wick, still with his back turned.  "You've returned.  What news do you bring me?"

He winced at the name Wick had bestowed on him.  Fury was short for "Righteous Fury Which Strikes from Above and Cleanses the Weak from the World."  An ironic name, if there ever was one.  But the church required such names from anyone of any rank, so he played along.  Wick himself bore such a name; apparently it was short for "The Humble Wick That Bears the Divine Flame to its Destiny."  A bit fancy for someone claiming humility, in his not-so-humble opinion.

"The traitor known as Gerald Loggins managed to reach the night watch and rouse an alarm," he said.  "I've contacted my mole within the militia, to strike at the soonest opportunity—"

"Call back your strike," said Wick, turning at last to meet him.  Wick was a pale, doughy man with watery blue eyes and precious little hair left.  He looked tired, but resolute.

Fury frowned.  "If word gets out—"

"It is time that word gets out," said Wick, spreading his arms wide.  "Now is the time for those who have been abandoned by their gods to come to us."

Fury raised an eyebrow.  "I think that the Militia may have something to say about our activities."

Wick smiled.  It was a weak, distant smile, as if he didn't even hear Fury and was listening to something else, something far away.  "They will not extinguish our flame," he said, with the gravity of a prayer.  "We will move, and keep moving.  And the disbelievers will never be able to find us, for we are but embers on the wind.  A whisper of smoke, a rumor of heat.  And by the time we make ourselves known, the Cleansing Fire will have spread to the entire world."

Fury had tuned out his overblown speech about halfway through.  Gods, he couldn't wait to drive a sword through Wick's thick, sagging throat.  Still…he hadn't survived this long by underestimating his opponents.  "High Empyreal Wick," he said, in the meek tones of any true believer, "did you know this was going to happen?  Did your—did our great and mighty god foresee this…divine devastation?"

Wick's eyes focused on him, very briefly.  And then he turned away.  "We will proceed as planned."

He frowned.  That was all he was going to get from Wick, and as usual, it told him nothing.  He inclined his head.  "Of course, High Empyreal," he said.  He quietly left the chamber, to organize his men for immediate departure.

 

#

 

Ozrith approached the altar of her god with her head bowed, her gaze on the floor.  A cleric stood beside the altar, watching her with cold, narrowed eyes.  The small room, hewn into the stone of the Underdark, was stuffy and warm with the light of dozens of candles set around the altar.

She glanced up.  She'd seen the altar before; it was always pinned with a couple dozen scraps of paper showing crude images of sacrifices being offered.  But in the wake of Kurtulmak's sudden silence, the altar had become thickly plastered with promises.  Hundreds of scraps of paper covered the stone surface and almost completely buried the two blood-spattered gnome skulls that framed the altar on either side.  Her people hoped that all these sacrifices would be enough to bring Him back from wherever He'd gone.  She could smell the quiet desperation in the room.

"Make your offer," growled the cleric, holding out a shining silver dagger.

She removed the scrap of paper from her pocket, glancing at the face drawn there.   With her other hand she took the dagger.  "My Lord Kurtulmak," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "I offer this sacrifice to you:  the life of my enemy, killed in your name."  She slid the dagger across her palm, and spilled her blood on the paper.

She watched the blood soak into the paper, smearing across the cold, cruel eyes of her enemy.  Her heart pounded in her narrow chest.  She had no doubt in her mind that Kurtulmak would find her offering worthy; no doubt that such a great sacrifice would finally bring Him back to her people.  She only doubted if she would be strong enough to deliver. 

"Go big or go home," her brother had always told her.  His last words to Ozrith, right before he'd lifted the Oculus to his face. 

"Name your enemy," said the cleric.

She took a deep breath and set the scrap of paper on the altar.  "Captain Davenport," she said.

 

#

 

"Here we are," said Lup, stepping onto the deck of the Wavesmasher.  "Home Sweet Ship!" 

"Thanks, Lup.  We'll be in touch."  Davenport glanced up at the daring grin plastered on the reaper's face.  "And—again—if you see this thing, _do not engage._ "

"Oh, natch," said Lup.  "And you do the same, if you see any more ghost pirate fleets."  She winked, and stepped back through the slice in the air.

Davenport sighed.  All he could do was hope that Lup, Barry and Kravitz would stay safe.  But the trio had made their case for heading over to the Green Fields, the celestial home of the halfling pantheon, to search for clues either of the goddess's escape or of their enemy's recent attack.  And there was no guaranteed safety when a god-defeating force was on the loose. 

After the vision in Istus's temple, Merle and Luca had put their heads together and identified the goddess in question as Cyrrollalee, the halfling goddess of home and hospitality.  The open door was her sign.  Where she would have fled to was uncertain; they'd narrowed down the most likely locations as her oldest central temple, called The Grapevine's Root, or a more recent but newly-popular temple called The Homestead.  Davenport had volunteered to sail up to the Root, which was located in the vineyards of the Hills of Tethyr, and Magnus had offered  to come with.  Taako, Merle, and Branda would try the Homestead, as it wasn't far from a temple of Pan which Merle wanted to check in on.

"Well," he said, "welcome aboard."  He glanced over the side and saw that Lup, in the few seconds she'd managed to be aboard, had once more changed his ship's name from _Wave Smasher_ to _Wave Humper_.  He sighed and cast an illusion over it, restoring the original name for the fifth time.

He led Magnus inside and they stowed their luggage and the map tube. 

"Nice place you got here!" said Arumdina.  "Cozy.  What's that pile of blankets on that big shelf over there?"

"That's…my bed?"

"Oh, right!  For sleeping, right.  That's a thing you do."

Marmalade slipped out of Davenport's bed and purred against his leg.  "Miss me?" he murmured, giving the orange tabby cat a good scratch behind the ears.  "Did Orla give you plenty of treats?"  He'd have to send the orc a nice thank-you gift for cat-sitting in his absence. 

Marmalade looked up at Davenport with his one good eye, and butted his face against Davenport's knee.

"Whoa, who's this adorable furball?" asked Arumdina.

"That's Marmalade," he said.  "My, uh, emotional support cat."  He knelt by a chest and flipped open the latches.

"Neat.  What's in the box?"

"My emotional support knives," he said dryly, stowing his weapons.

It took Arumdina a moment to realize he was joking.  She broke out into snort-laughter, which was impressive for someone who didn't have a nose.

Magnus helped him pull up anchor and get under way.  And soon they were making good time up the coast, pushed by a brisk ocean breeze.  He pulled a small table out onto the deck and rolled out one of Garl's maps, holding the corners down with a few rocks and a coffee mug.

"So, Arumdina," said Magnus, as a pleasant silence fell over the deck.  "You're a magical axe."

"Last time I checked."

"Got any cool powers?"

Davenport could practically hear her grin.  "Oh boy, do I ever!  I'm like, _brimming_ with cool things I can do!  If Garl throws me, I can fly around and slice up his enemies and come back to him.  I can cut through stone and metal like it's not even there, no biggie!  I can—"

"Wait."  Davenport straightened.  "You can fly back to Garl?"

"Well…yeah, if he recalls me."  She paused.  "He, um, hasn't recalled me."

He sighed.  Well, that wasn't going to work.

"So you're kinda like a soulbound weapon?" said Magnus. 

"Hmm.  I guess that's a word you could use for it?"

The fighter rubbed his beard, as if he was thinking hard.  "I once knew a dwarf, Jess the Beheader, who had a soulbound axe.  And if anyone else tried to pick it up, it would go back to her."

"Well, Garl did give his permission for Utirhant to wield me—"

"But _I_ don't have permission," said Magnus.  "What happens if I pick you up?  Who would you go back to?"

Arumdina was silent for a moment.  "…Huh.  I don't…know?"

Davenport picked up on Magnus's train of thought.  "It's worth a try," he said.  He set Arumdina down on the table.  Magnus reached for her handle.

His fingers closed on a cloud of glittering particles of light.  Arumdina vanished.

And reappeared in Davenport's hands.  "Whoa!"  He staggered back, nearly fumbling the sudden weight of her.

"Okay, that didn't work _quite_ like we'd hoped," said Arumdina. 

"It's okay, we'll figure something out," he said, setting her down again. 

The axe didn't say anything else, but her disappointment was palpable.  He wondered if she was reaching out to Garl, just as he'd been doing.

It was still strange, thinking of Garl being _gone._   In retrospect, it made their last conversation together seem frustratingly banal.  There'd been no hints that anything was amiss.  Davenport had just been fishing one afternoon, when Garl had suddenly started broadcasting a recipe into his head.  He'd scrambled to the kitchen to start baking, and two hours later, he had a batch of blueberry-ginger scones cooling on his counter.

He'd half expected them to come in handy, in some unexpected but ridiculously fortuitous fashion.  Garl tended to work like that.  But nothing of the sort had happened.  He ate the scones over the next few days, sent the recipe to Taako, and had gone about his business.

That was it.  The last conversation he had with his god, and he hadn't even said a word.

He couldn't begin to imagine what Arumdina must be feeling.

 

#

 

"And what is it, exactly, that I'm supposed to be preparing for?"  Lord Sterling looked down through the vast window of his office, into the bustling streets of Neverwinter.

Lucretia took a deep breath.  "We're not certain, exactly, what to expect—"

"And that is the problem," said Sterling.  He turned to face her.  "You're asking me to prepare for an emergency, but you have no idea what form that emergency is going to take.  You've said as much."

She nodded.  "That is what we're dealing with, yes.  This sort of…prolonged absence of the gods isn't something we've ever dealt with before.  We can only make assumptions.  At the moment, the effects do not appear to be severe, but we don't know what we don't know."

Sterling paced, drawing one hand across his greying, well-trimmed beard.  "Fire, flood, drought?"  He seemed to be musing to himself.  He shook his head.  "I have already received concerning reports.  Some higher-up clerics have already sensed that something's wrong.  And even if word hasn't gotten out, it won't be long before their congregations begin to pick up on the tension."  He stopped, turned to look Lucretia square in the eye.  "Do you know what it's like when the people lose faith in their leadership?"

Lucretia had had more than a decade to work on her poker face.  "I am familiar, yes."

"Not to mention those who would take advantage of a power vacuum."  He began to pace again.  "And this is, quite literally, a power vacuum on a massive scale."

"Then it makes it all the more imperative that we work together," she said smoothly.  "We've faced the darkness before.  And we've come out on the other side, but only by working together.  It's how the Hunger was defeated."  She paused.  "And Wonderland."

Lord Sterling looked up at her sharply.  His blue eyes regarded her with sudden interest.

She nodded once, very slowly.

He gave a short, bitter chuckle.  "I always thought something was strange about you," he said.  "That you seemed so much older than the Story implied you should be."  He shook his head, and turned back towards the window overlooking the city.  "Madame Lucretia.  I appreciate what you're doing here.  And I understand why you want to take this approach.  But…"  He spread his hands wide, encompassing the whole skyline.  "I must think of Neverwinter first.  All my resources, all my attention, must be focused on keeping my city safe, through whatever dangers lurk on the horizon.  I cannot expend my resources trying to save the world when I don't even know what I'm trying to save it from."  He held up a hand to forestall her protests.  "This is not to say that we aren't allies.  If I see a way that I may help without depriving my own people, I will do so.  But…in the current circumstance, I just can't make any promises.  You understand."

She sighed.  "Unfortunately, I do."  She stood, her sky-blue robes sweeping the floor.  "Still, I hope that our alliance can continue.  If we keep each other apprised of any useful information we discover…well, the more heads bent towards a problem, the more likely said problem can be nipped in the, ah, proverbial bud."

"That, I will do," he said.  "And I'll start by leaving you with a word of warning, as someone who has spent his entire life navigating the halls of power."  He glanced over his shoulder at her.  "If the gods go silent, Madame Director…there are those who would make themselves gods in their place."


	7. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurley keeps herself busy. Lucretia gets a clue. Merle does some landscaping.

Hurley sat down at the desk, quickly scanning the report that had been handed to her.  "Mr. Loggins?" she asked.

The pale human man sitting across from her nodded.  "Yeah, that's, uh, me."  He was still rumpled from a long, sleepless night that was edging towards morning.  He rubbed one hand over his mouth, as if he didn't quite believe himself.

"I'm Officer Hurley.  And this is Officer Roswell."  She nodded to the scarlet bird who perched at the edge of the desk, their wing all patched up by the staff cleric.  "Would you like some tea?" she asked.  Partly out of kindness—the man had been awake for who knew how long—and partly because victims were easier to get useful information out of when they were calm.

"Oh, thank you."

She poured him a mug of chamomile tea from the enchanted kettle emblazoned with the logo of Taako's School of Mystical Arts.  It was her one small comfort she'd brought with her when the overstretched Goldcliff Militia had asked her to come back to the force.  "Just for a little while," the chief had told her.  "At least until we get to the bottom of this."

Her hands shook; blossoms burst along the back of her left hand.  She managed to get the tremor under control, took a deep breath, and then handed the mug over without spilling it. 

Truth was, there was no way she could have turned the chief down.  She'd been awake longer than Loggins, probably.  What was it, two days?  Three?  She couldn't stay in the tree more than five minutes before a restless, nervous energy filled her and she found herself leaving, just to be out walking somewhere.  And Sloane was the same, wide awake and energized and sprouting new branches by accident.  As if it were spring times ten.  The cherry blossoms that crowned her head were blooming again, even though she'd already had her bloom weeks ago.

So when the chief asked her to come aboard again, she'd jumped at the chance, just to be _doing something_ with all this energy.  And when he told her the concerning reports coming out of every temple in town…

She'd had a sinking feeling it was all connected.  And she wasn't going to rest—quite literally—until she got to the bottom of this.

"Officer Little has taken your statement about the man who chased you last night.  And you say this person was a member of a…religious group whose meetings you were attending?"

"That's right, ma'am."  He sipped tentatively at the tea.  "This is good tea, by the way.  I'm Gerald Loggins."

"Can you tell me more about this group?"

Loggins looked abashed.  "It's called the Church of the Cleansing Fire," he said.  "And I know that sounds kind of harsh?  But you know, it didn't seem so at first."  He shrugged his thin, rounded shoulders.  "They seemed like really good people.  Earnest.  And they had a nice selection of cookies at their meetings, and tea and coffee.  Was gonna bring some cookies myself, next meeting.  But then, um…it got real weird?"

"How so?"

He rubbed his mustache, frowning.  "I didn't like the atmosphere there, I suppose.  And their head priest was saying some weird things about the gods all dying, except _their_ god?  And some really intense stuff about global cataclysm.  I dunno, it all sounded kinda funny to me, so I left.  And the next thing I know, I'm being chased."

"And this person chasing you was trying to kill you?"

"Well…I know I said that, but now that I think about it, that sounds like a harsh accusation.  He coulda just been trying to scare me, or maybe rough me up a little.  Maybe it was a dues thing, after all…"

Hurley glanced at Roswell, who gave a very small shake of their head.  They had already given their report; she had no doubt in her mind that the man pursuing Loggins had had lethal intent.  But she didn't want to lead her witness, so she let Loggins' ever-shifting and self-refuting statements stand.  "Do any members of the church have details about your life outside your membership?  An address, perhaps, where they might try to find you?"

He looked a little green at that.  "I did put down my address.  I thought it was for a newsletter.  But I never got a newsletter, now that I think about it.  D'you think…"  He looked up at her, as if the danger of his situation had finally sunk in.  "Do you think they might come after my family?  Over _membership_ _dues?"_

She stood.  Energy thrummed through her wooden limbs; a branch began to sprout from her elbow.  "I'm going to put you in touch with our Witness Protection team," she said, trying to maintain her composure even though her whole body felt so _warm_.  Like she'd just drank a bottle of 100-proof sunlight.  "Don't worry, Mr. Loggins.  We'll do everything we can to keep your family safe.  In the meantime, we have a room here where you can get some rest."  She had a bad feeling that this cult wasn't messing around, and if he had a family, she needed to make sure they were gotten to safety as soon as possible.  Time enough later to grill Loggins for more details about this so-called Church of the Cleansing Fire.

"Do you think that's really necessary?  I don't want to be any trouble.  I'm Gerald Loggins—"

"And I'm Angus McDonald," came another voice.  A human boy who couldn't have been more than thirteen years old strode confidently into her office.  "I'm the World's Greatest Detective, and I'm on the case!"

 

#

 

Lucretia stepped out into the bustling streets of Neverwinter, a headache already forming.  Her mind was whirling with lists of things to be done, people to talk to, what Sterling's benign non-action might mean.  And the loud bustle and noise of Neverwinter wasn't helping.

She turned down a main road and headed towards the Neverwinter Memorial Library.  There was a café across the street that had become a favorite of hers while the library had been under construction; she could spare a few minutes to consider her next move over a nice slice of fresh apple pie before summoning a retrieval sphere from Avi.

The activity on the streets seemed undiminished.  The mood was bustling, upbeat.  She supposed word of the gods' disappearance hadn't really gone out to the general public.  Which, she supposed, was a good thing.  And that was the problem.

She was so tired of keeping secrets.

The Day of Story & Song had, in an unexpected way, been such a relief to her.  No more hiding from her family, no more dread secrets crouching on her shoulders and squeezing the breath from her lungs.  It was all out in the open, and she could deal with the fallout without having to worry about who needed to be kept in the dark or who might hear a burst of static from her lips.

But the gods disappearing was an existential nightmare.  There was no single, easy target she could point the world to, saying, "This one, here, is our enemy, and if we work together we can stop it!"  There was only a dread silence. 

There was no good way to tell the world that their gods were gone.  The fallout could be disastrous. 

Davenport knew that.  And, knowing that, he'd put her in charge of managing it.  He'd put her in charge of the story.

After everything she'd done with the last story entrusted to her.

She took a deep breath.  Well, the information was going to get out soon enough.  It was just a matter of shaping it into a narrative that could rally the people and minimize panic.  It was what she was good at. 

The little café was bustling this afternoon.  After the library had been built, it had renamed itself The Coffee & Quill, and had become quite the spot for writers and researchers.  She glanced over and saw that her favorite window booth was occupied already, by a short old woman with thick glasses and her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun.    

She looked up, and waved Lucretia over.

Lucretia regared her more carefully, one eyebrow raised.  She'd never seen this woman before.  But here she was, waving Lucretia over like an old friend.  It wouldn't be the first time a fan of the Story acted like they knew her personally.  She strode over, keeping up her professional mask of Madame Director.

"Lucretia," said the woman, with a thick and untraceable accent, "is so good to finally meet you!  Won't you sit and join me?  You chose a good table.  Such a nice view of the library!  And good for people-watching, too."  She winked.

Lucretia sat down across from her.  "I'm afraid you have the advantage," she said.  "And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Oh, pardon me and my rusty manners!  I don't get out much.  My name is Paloma."  She took a sip of her tea.  "Perhaps you've heard of me, yes?"

Now both Lucretia's eyebrows shot up.  "From Refuge?  The one who gave Merle our happy ending prophecy?"

Paloma beamed.  Her face wrinkled in a way that suggested a lifetime of warm smiles.  "One and the same!  And I had a feeling you could use some guidance.  So I come here, to finally meet the mysterious woman behind it all.  How goes the moon business?"

She decided she liked Paloma.  "The Bureau keeps me busy," she said.  And then she found herself adding, "It makes me happy to see people enjoying the things we've built." 

The admission to a near-stranger surprised her.  But there was something incredibly comforting about Paloma.  She felt easy to trust.

The waitress came by with a scone for Paloma, along with a refresh of her tea.  Lucretia ordered her usual.  Paloma took a bite of the scone and snorted.  "Hmm, a touch heavy on the vanilla," she remarked.  "Their scone witch could use some restraint."

"I think they bake by hand, here," she said.  "Gives it that old-fashioned touch."

"Oh!  Is hipster café, then?" said Paloma, her eyes twinkling.

Lucretia laughed. 

"Now then," said Paloma, setting her scone down.  "You are a woman who could use some guidance, yes?  What to do in this new time of trouble?"

She took a deep breath, let it out.  She should not be surprised that Paloma, a known divination expert, should be well aware of what was happening.  "That is…accurate," she said.

"Well, then.  I will give you prophecy to help.  And in return, all I ask is one small favor.  Is teeny-tiny thing, but will make this little old lady very happy."

"Oh?"  She took a sip of the extra-strong black tea that the waitress had just set in front of her.

Paloma nodded.  "All I ask is a chance to visit the Bureau.  I have always wanted to ride around on the moon!"

The last of the tension in her spine lifted.  "You should have asked for more," she said smoothly.  "I'd have given that to you for free."

Paloma laughed.  "In future, I will drive a harder bargain, then!"  She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small, shining white crystal.  "This one," she said, "is for you."

She dropped the crystal.  It shattered on the table.  Paloma's eyes went white, and she spoke in a deep voice that did not seem to belong to her.  _"In times of great import,"_ she intoned, _"the gods will send messengers to be their voice.  You must trust the Angel in Neverwinter.  He will be your guide."_

The glow in her eyes subsided.  The café was very quiet.  Paloma's sudden theatrics had attracted some attention, and several people were staring.

Lucretia took a sip of tea and raised her voice.  "Has nobody here ever seen a pair of old ladies conversing over tea before?"

Instantly, everyone went back to their conversations.

To Paloma, she said, "I suppose you'll be wanting that moon ride now?"

The prophetess waved the suggestion away.  "Another time," she said.  "I have VIP ticket to Jess the Beheader tonight, and would not miss it for all the diamonds in Refuge!"

Lucretia smiled.  "Soon, then."  She glanced out the window at the great white stone edifice of the library.  "As for me," she said, "it sounds like I'll be in town just a little longer."

 

#

 

"When're we gonna stop for lunch?" Mookie asked, for the fifteenth time in the past hour.  "I'm hungry!"

"Just a little longer," Merle said.  His time bringing the kids along on their Extreme Teen Adventures had gotten him used to the usual complaints of thirst and aching feet and insect bites.  But Mookie was wound up more than usual.  Maybe it was the excitement of being on a world-saving mission, but Merle wished more than usual that he could have a few minutes of quiet.

"But instead of focusing on being hungry," he tried, "why not focus instead on the glory of Pan's creation?"  He spread his arms wide.  "Look at the trees, the flowers.  There's beauty all around you."

The road to the Homestead wound through new forest, where younger, smaller trees still allowed enough sunlight through their canopy for ample underbrush to grow up on either side of the road.  Bushy ferns and clusters of colorful wildflowers attested to the lushness of the soil.

"It's very nice," said Mavis.  "So many flowers in bloom!"

"You know what's also nice?" Branda piped up.  She was bringing up the rear with Taako, casually striding along as if nothing in the world could ruffle her feathers.  "The thin trees means you have really good line of sight, and it's harder for someone to hide behind them.  Of course, you'll still have to watch the underbrush."  She winked.  "That's a warrior tip for you!"

"Ooh, watch me hide!" said Mookie, diving into a hedge of ferns.  Mavis gave a dismayed cry and dove in after him. 

"Ah, geez," Merle groaned.  "Mookie, get out here where I can see you—"

But Branda was already wading into the ferns after them, and scooped up one kid in each arm.  "Heck, Merle, I could use your kids for weight-training!" she said, jogging along the path to catch up with him.  Mookie squealed, clearly enjoying being carried along.  Mavis slipped out of her grip at the earliest opportunity, but she was smiling.  A piece of fern was stuck in her hair, and for once she didn't try to remove it immediately.

Merle grumbled.  He glanced up at Taako to see if the elf also wanted to get in on the game of impressing his kids.  But Taako didn't even seem to notice them.  He was quiet in the way he got when something was bothering him and he was trying to pretend he was fine.  He'd been like that since Refuge.

"Okay," said Merle, "the next time we find a good place to sit, we'll break for lunch.  Nobody ever saved the world on an empty stomach."

"Woo-ooo!"  Mookie stretched his arms wide.  "We're gonna save the world!"

"That's right, my little fireball—"

"Hey dad, why don't you Parley the bad guy right now?"  He waved his fists.  "Just like the Hunger!  Only this time, you punch him in the nose and tell him to stop being the bad guy!"

"Mookie!"  Mavis looked aghast.  "You can't tell dad to Parley!  What if the bad guy kills him?  The bond engine isn't around any more to bring him back!"

"Oh," said Mookie, suddenly deflated.  He sagged in Branda's arm.  She set him down.  "Guess I didn't think about that…"  He looked up at Merle, uncertain.

Merle cleared his throat.  "Well, I—"

"Say you won't Parley!" said Mavis.  There was real fear in her voice.  "You…you can find another way to talk to the bad guy, right?" 

He sighed.  The truth was, Parley was the only ace he had up his sleeve.  And he'd already tried it.  But it hadn't worked; the spell never went off, because he didn't know who or what he was targeting.  Even before he'd met John, he'd had an understanding of the Hunger as an entity.  He knew how to target the spell.  But not this time.  He didn't have the slightest notion what he was up against, or whether it even had sentience.  It could be a weird energy anomaly, for all he knew.

He set a hand on Mavis's shoulder.  "We'll think of something else," he said.  Even though he had no idea what that something else might be.  "You don't have to worry about your old man.  Okay, kiddo?"

Mavis looked unconvinced, but she nodded.

"Hold up," said Branda suddenly.  "There's another party up ahead." 

They stopped in place.  Branda slipped forward, moving with surprising quiet.  Merle waddled after her, grip tightening on his Staff of Seasons.  He rounded the bend, and stopped in surprise.

It was just a couple of merchant wagons, stocked high with various goods: bolts of cloth, wine casks, a few wheels of cheese.  The party was a mix of halflings and gnomes, and they were all busy hacking at the road, digging up tufts of grass and bunches of ferns.  The underbrush was growing so thickly here that it had caught up in the axles of their carts.  The dirt road couldn't even be seen anymore; it was just a river of green, snaking off between the trees.  He supposed this part of the road wasn't traveled very often.

"Oh, you there!" said one green-haired gnome, who was wearing an officiously fancy waistcoat.  "Sorry to bother you, but would you be willing to lend a hand?"  He drove a dull dagger at the base of a clump of grass, and tugged the clump free.  "The more people on this, the faster we can get the road cleared.  It's a mess up ahead!"

Branda, to her credit, looked to Merle, deferring to him.  He cleared his throat.  "Sure we can help," he said.  "Of course, there may be a better way to get through, in a way that respects the natural beauty of Pan's creation—"

"This," said the gnome, pointing to his feet, "isn't natural."

The hole where he had just dug up the grass was quickly sprouting more grass. 

Merle stepped back, taking a harder look.  The overgrowth was spreading down the road towards them; grass was already beginning to grow around his feet. 

He heard Mavis give a surprised shout.  "Dad, what's going on?" she cried, scooping up Mookie and holding him up as if the ground itself were attacking them.

Branda frowned, wading into the taller grass closer to the cart.  She punched a fern.  It didn't do anything.  "Okay," she said, "I'm officially out of ideas."

"It's probably just a prank," said the gnome, "or my name isn't Edwardcheek Gigglebottom!  Still, we are late on our shipment—"

"I'm sorry," said Taako, "did you say your name was Edwardcheek Gigglebottom?"

"Yes, but my friends just call me Cheeky."

"And you think that someone's making you the butt of their joke?" said the elf.  "I just wanna make clear that's what's happening."

The gnome smiled.  "I suppose that is one way to make a pun on my name, yes."

"I'm telling you," said a halfling, tugging on a clump of wildflowers that had sprung up around a wheel.  "It's the Gaia Sash!  Someone's found it again!  It's a marvel we're still alive!"

"The Gaia Sash isn't a thing anymore!" said Cheeky.  "Remember, the Light got sucked out of it?"

Blood roared in Merle's ears.  He approached one of the trees at the side of the road.  Not half a mile back, they had all been thin, young trees.  But the trees here already appeared to be old growth, clustering hard against the side of the road till he could barely see past their trunks. 

He pressed his flesh hand against the bark.  It was unnaturally warm.  He closed his eyes and extended his cleric senses.  He felt Pan's energy flowing through the tree, as it flowed through all plants.  But there was something…off about it.  Like there was too much of Pan's power, if such a thing were possible.  The tree was feverish with it.

He pressed his soulwood hand against the bark.

The heat flooded his arm.  Flowers burst from his hands, and buds began forming all the way up to his elbow.  He drew his hand back in surprise. 

"Dad?" Mavis said again.  "Dad, what should we do?"

"Here," he said, stepping back.  "I'm gonna try this…"  He hefted the Staff of Seasons, and tapped it hard on the earth.

At first, nothing happened.  Everyone stared at him, waiting with held breath.  He became very aware of the wide-eyed stares of his children, looking to him for heroism.

And then shimmering light pulsed from the dark wood.  It glowed brighter and brighter, and then seemed to pour out of the staff into the earth.  It suffused the trees and the grass and the flowers all around him, until he had to close his eyes against the light.

And then the glow subsided. 

The trees were back to their normal size, and the grass and ferns were the barest green fuzz in the dirt road.  Even his arm was back to normal.

"Nice!" said Branda, giving him a double thumbs-up.  "I'll drink to that!"

"Dad, you did it!" said Mavis, while Mookie whooped beside her.

Merle smiled, awash in the glow of a job well done.  But in the back of his mind, he wondered if there were other places drowning in green.

After all, Pan's domain was everywhere.


	8. Axe & Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus cheers on his friends. Davenport sings a duet. Arumdina tells a story.

"And then _I_ said, 'Mind if we _axe_ you a few questions?'  And then I cut the gerblin in half, right there!"  Magnus mimed swinging Railsplitter.

Arumdina laughed.  "Oh my gods, Magnus!  Priceless!"

He beamed, picking up his knitting again.  "I figured you'd appreciate a good axe pun," he said.

"You know," she mused, "a lot of people don't realize it, but axe-based jokes are pretty cutting-edge."

Davenport groaned, dragging a hand down his face.  "Are you two going to be doing this the whole trip?"  He looked up from the pile of maps he'd been staring at for the past hour.

They'd docked the ship at a small coastal town for the night, and Magnus had decided to try to get his mind off things by whiling away the time knitting and swapping stories with Arumdina.  "Oh come on, Cap'nport," he said cheerfully, "I'd think that having some merry company on your ship would make the trip go by faster.  Really cut the time in half."

Arumdina guffawed.  "Nice!" she said.  Magnus high-fived her on the flat of one blade.

Davenport groaned even more loudly, and returned to his map.  "What have I let on board?" he mumbled.

Magnus reached the end of a row, turned his work, and pulled in another color of yarn.  Currently he was striping between green and white.

"Hey Mags," said Arumdina, "you mind scooching your butt over here so I can get a closer look?"

"Sure!"  He obliged, sliding his chair closer to where she'd been hung on the wall. 

"Thanks, pal.  I love watching people work with their hands.  It's so… _weird_.  But cool!"

"You jelly?"

"Hmm…Well, between you and me, maybe a little?" she admitted.  "But I get to cut kobolds in half with my face, so I've got that going for me."

"True, I haven't been able to do that yet."  He glanced at the Tempus Bracer.  "But I can do this neat thing!"  He tapped the clock face, and time froze.

The room was sapped of all color except a faint pearlescent gray.  Davenport leaned over his maps, not moving, not even breathing.  Marmalade, who was making his way down into the hold from the deck, paused with one striped paw hanging between one step and the next.  Even the ocean outside had stilled. 

He finished knitting the row of white, then unfroze time and held up his work.  "Ta-da!"

"Wow!" said Arumdina.  "Nice.  I definitely can't do that."

Davenport hummed thoughtfully.  He hadn't looked up from his map, and seemed not to have noticed Magnus's little temporal trick.  "You know," he said, "this is going to sound weird, but...I once met an Arumdina who could take on the form of a gnome.  It was on a different cycle, but maybe that's something you can do?"       

"Whaaaaa?" said Magnus.  "Really?"

"Huh," said Arumdina.  "What, like...an illusion or an actual transformation?"

He shrugged.  "You know, I never asked?  I suppose it must've been a transformation, because she was walking around independently."

"Well, she could've been floating."

"Yeah, that's true…"

Magnus pictured a floating Arumdina, bobbing down the street, surrounded by an illusion.  He chuckled.

"Hmm.  Either way, it's not something I've done before.  I've never even tried."  She was silent a moment, considering this.  "Was I...you know...?"

Cap'nport raised an eyebrow.  "What, attractive?"

"No, you dummy!  Did I look _badass?"_

"Oh, extremely."

"Excellent." 

"Man," said Magnus, his fingers working a line of even knit stitches, "if you could change shape—"

_"Hrrrrrrrrrrnnnngg!"_

He looked up in alarm.  Davenport spat out his tea and stared at the axe.  "Arumdina…?"

_"Hrrrrrggggh!"_ she groaned again.  "I'm _trying_ to grow limbs!  HRRRRRRRRRRNNNGH—come on, _grow!_ "

"Go Arumdina!" Magnus said.  "Actualize those goals!"

"I don't think that's how that works…" said Cap'nport dubiously.

"HRRRRRR— _ugh._ "  She broke off with a gasp.  "Hey Utirhant, can you help a gal out?  I think I may need some more of Garl's power if I wanna try to pull this off.  Think you can gimme a little boost?"

He gave her an odd look.  "I…don't know what you're asking me to do," he said.

"You know, just channel some of Garl's power into me."

He looked at Magnus, who shrugged.  "You can do that, Cap'nport?"

"Of course he can!" said Arumdina.  "That's what being an emissary _means._   You can channel your god's power.  Kind of like a cleric, but in a very specific way.  How do you think your divine artifacts work?"

Magnus looked at his Tempus Bracer.  "Uhh…I thought I was a time sorcerer?"

"And your time magic comes from…?"

"…my love for my friends?" he tried.

"Ugh!  How do you fleshbags get anything done?!"  She paused, and Magnus got the sense that if she had any eyes, she'd be rolling them.  "Okay, Emissary Training 101.  This is basic stuff.  Anytime an emissary uses a divine artifact, they're channeling their god's power into the artifact.  You might not be aware of it, maybe you're doing it unconsciously, I dunno.  But that's what's happening.  That's what allows the artifact to do what it does.  The Tempus Bracer, the Chance Lance, the golden die.  Any time you use them, you're acting as a conductor of divine power, and the artifact focuses it into a specific effect.  Got it?"

"Huh."  Magnus rubbed his jaw.  He thought of every time he'd ever thrown the Chance Lance.  It didn't feel any different than throwing any other weapon.  But to think that he was somehow connected to Istus every time he used it…the thought was comforting.  Like they were tag-team fighting for Fate.

"Now, Utirhant," she said, "take me off the wall and give me a good swing.  Don't worry that I'm going to cut anything.  I'm going to try to redirect Garl's power and see what I can do."

Cap'nport looked skeptical, but he took the axe off the wall and stepped into a clear space far away from anything breakable.  Slowly, he waved her through the air.

"Come on!" she said.  "Swing me _like you mean it!_ "

"Go Cap'nport!" said Magnus.  "Pretend you're slicing a Hungerling in half!"

He scrunched up his face in a fierce glare and swung her hard.  She began to glow.  He swung her again, and again, and each time her blade glowed more brightly.  Around the fifth time, the glow was so bright that Magnus could hardly look at her.  Cap'nport loosened his grip as she began to float in the air.

"Okay," she said, as white light suffused her.  "Let's do this!"

The light swirled around her, then condensed and warmed to a deep golden color.  And then she dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

She was still an axe.  A glowy axe, but an axe.

"Huh," said Magnus. 

"Huh," said Cap'nport.

"Oh come on!" she cried.  "That's _it?_   I can just glow a little?!"

"Well, look on the bright side," he said.  "That can come in really handy in dark places!"

"Nice," she said, her voice dripping with acid.  "I can get a _light spell._   Real impressive, there."  She sighed.  "Sorry, Utirhant, I don't think you can channel enough power to get this ship out of port, so to speak."

Cap'nport crouched down to pick her up.  "I can try swinging you a few more times—"

_"No!"_

He jumped back at the sudden fierceness in her voice.  "Arumdina?"

"I mean…uh…I don't think that's a great idea," she said quickly. 

"You're not _that_ heavy," he said, one eyebrow cocked.

"Well, I mean, uh…you know what they say, better safe than sorry!  Why don't you, uh, put me back on the wall— _without swinging me_ —and we'll just call it a night?  You mortals need to rest anyway, right?  I bet you're just super tired by now!"

Cap'nport narrowed his eyes.  He looked like he was about to protest.  But he just shook his head.  "All right," he said finally, rubbing his eyes.  "I've been staring too long at these maps anyway.  I suppose a good night's rest might help."  He picked her up and set her on the wall.  With another long and curious look at her, and at Magnus, he left the common room and headed towards his berth.

An awkward quiet fell into the room.  Magnus finished the row, and another.

He leaned towards Arumdina, and said in a low voice, "You can tell me what's wrong."

"No," she said, just as quiet.  "No, I can't."

 

#

 

The next evening, Davenport stepped out onto the deck and stared up at the night sky.  The stars of Faerun were all in place, but they seemed distinctly brighter than normal.  The Northern Lights danced on the western horizon, though they should not be visible at this latitude, let alone that part of the sky.

The Wavesmasher had made good progress up the coast today under the power of a strong tailwind.  But tomorrow would be trickier navigating.  They would be turning up into the mouth of a river and sailing against the current up to the Root.  He'd need to be on his toes.

The ship was quiet.  Magnus had gone into town for a late-night jog, and Marmalade was curled up on the bed.  Arumdina had been quiet for hours, but he had no idea if she slept or meditated or did something similar.  Did divine axes need to rest?

He sighed and did a check of the lines, mulling over his next move.  Arumdina had been acting cagey since last night, her silence broken only by solicitations about how he was feeling.  As if he were made of fragile glass starting to show spiderweb cracks.  It wasn't the first time in his life he'd been treated as weak, but coming from Arumdina?  It was odd, and a little worrisome.

He began to spool up some loose line, humming under his breath.  The hum became a murmured song, an eerie and rhythmic shanty in a minor key.  The next thing he knew, he was singing it with his full voice, shooing away his worries with sheer volume and the joy of flowing from note to note.  The stars burned brightly overhead, and the low waves beat a soft rhythm against the hull.

He came again to the repeated chorus.  And another voice joined his, singing a descant harmony.

He dropped the line.

"Oh shoot!" said the voice, from the port side of his hull.  "I mean… _whooooohhh_ , I'm just the wiiiiiiind…."

He crossed the deck and leaned out over the railing.  There, clinging to the side of his ship, was a kobold dressed in dark leathers.  She'd streaked the red scales of her face with dark mud, in order to blend more easily into the shadows.  But it only made her more obvious against the pearly white hull.

"Well, 'just the wind,'" he remarked, an amused smile curving his lips.  "You have a very nice voice.  But you'll probably get better acoustics up on the deck."

She blinked large yellow eyes at him.  Slowly she climbed up the rest of the way, and peered over the rim of the deck.  "You…you think I have a nice voice?" she asked.  "You mean, 'nice' like you're trying to be polite?  Or, nice as in 'not bad'?  Or nice as in, I could, uh, go professional?"

He chuckled.  The shy enthusiasm in her eyes was delightful to see.  "Well, going professional really depends on how much you're willing to put in the work to get there!  But your tone was good and your pitch was excellent.  You came in at a perfect fifth above the melody and landed the high notes well.  Have you sung this song before?"

She shook her head.  She still clung to the outside of the railing, as if reluctant to come fully aboard.

"Then you sing a lot?" he tried. 

"Are you kidding?" she squeaked.  He must've hit the right chord, because now she pulled herself over the railing and onto the deck.  "I love singing!  Gosh, I never get a chance to talk to anyone about it, though.  Are you a tenor?  I bet you're a tenor, you look like a tenor."  She grinned.  Her teeth were very sharp, but her enthusiasm was sincere.

Davenport shrugged.  "Well, I suppose by Big Folk musical notation, yes, I am a tenor," he said.  "But among gnomes, I actually have a deep voice.  Some people have even said I sound like a human male trying to speak in a high voice.  But that describes half of Faerun, doesn't it?"  And he winked.

"Gosh," she said.  "I just…the Story said you sang opera, but I never thought I'd actually hear you singing."

"Oh?"  He arched an eyebrow.  "I suppose you were just very lucky to be where you were, then."

She winced, as if she suddenly remembered how suspicious she looked.  "Yeah," she said, "I was...out taking a stroll along the docks, you know?  Get some of that good ol' ocean breeze!"  She took a deep breath through her scaley nostrils.  "Mmm-mmm, fresh ocean air!  And then I heard you singing, and…and I just needed to get closer."

"Moved by the music," he said, nodding.

"Yeah, _exactly!_   You get it!" she said, moving closer to him.  "That feeling of there just being a--a song in your heart and it just needs to get out!"  She was staring rapturously at the sky.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Her smile faded.  She looked ashore, as if debating making a hasty escape.  "Uh, Ozrith," she said.  "But my friends call me Ozzie."

"Well, then," he said, extending a hand, "I hope that we can be friends.  May I call you Ozzie?"

She looked at his hand, frowning.  She turned away, unable to meet his eyes.

"Ozrith, then," he said.  "Why did you really come here?"

She was silent for a long moment.  Then she took a deep breath, drawing one of the two wicked-looking daggers at her hips.  She held it before her.  "Captain Davenport," she said, her voice shaky, "I have come to slay you, for the honor of Kurtulmak.  So that He may smell your spilled blood and return to us."

"Oh," he said, and sat down on a coil of rope.  "So he and Garl are enemies in this world.  I see."  Suddenly he felt very, very tired.

She blinked.  "Of course they're enemies!" she cried.  "They're always enemies!"

"Not on every world," he said.  He looked out at the waves, rolling endlessly towards shore.  "Sometimes they were just friendly rivals.  Sometimes allies.  Those were nice worlds."  He shook his head.  "What started it this time?"

Ozrith's jaw dropped open.  "You don't know?"

He shrugged.  "The story's different, every world."

She huffed.  Her tail lashed in agitation.  "I can't believe I'm telling you this," she said.  "Garl Glittergold--he _killed_ Kurtulmak!"

His breath caught in his throat.  He hadn't expected that.

Ozrith glared at him.  "The kobold race was on the edge of a golden age of innovation, and Kurtulmak built a vast palace in the Underdark to show the gods what we were capable of.  But when Garl saw what Kurtulmak made, he grew jealous, because _his_ people had been wasting their time telling jokes and playing games!  And in his jealousy and pettiness, he tore down the palace right on top of Kurtulmak!  Just because he was mad that someone had rivaled him in skill!  But Kurtulmak's will was stronger than anyone realized.  And when He died, He ascended to godhood, swearing that our people would never forget the cruelty and underhandedness of gnomes."

He took a deep breath, let it out again.  "So Kurtulmak and Garl are fighting," he said.  "But why do we need to fight their war?  Does that mean we have to hate each other?  That you and I have to duke it out right now on the deck of this ship?"  He tilted his head, regarding her.  "It's not gonna bring him back.  And if I'm being honest, I'd much rather sing with you."

Her hand shook as it clutched the dagger.  Her stance was unsteady, her back was too stiff.  She was no trained assassin.  She wasn't even that old.

"Have you ever killed a gnome before?" he asked.  "You don't seem too keen on it."

"Well…no…But I swore to kill you."  She tried to steady the dagger's point, squeezed her eyes shut.  "You killed my brother!  You and your _stupid Oculus!_ "

He took a step back.  It was like a weight had slammed into his shoulders.  He'd known the Oculus had killed people--he'd always been painfully aware of that fact--but he'd never come face to face with one of its victims.  "I'm sorry," he said.  The words seemed too small in the face of Ozrith's grief, but he didn't know what else to say.

"You don't get to be sorry about that!"

"But I am," he said.  His throat felt hot and tight, like every word had to be squeezed out through a pinprick.  "I'm sorry for the Oculus.  A lot of people died who shouldn't have."

She stared at him.  Like she hadn't expected this response at all.  She shook her head, and paced back and forth in a tight circle.  "Aaargh--this is one of your…your gnomish tricks, isn't it!" she snapped.  "You're--you're probably getting a kick out of this, but you've illusioned yourself to make it look like you feel bad!"  She pointed her dagger at him in accusation.

He sighed.  "You're an assassin coming after a gnome who's a known master illusionist," he said.  "Didn't you bring some sort of true-sight artifact?"

The scales visible beneath the mud visibly brightened, in what he assumed was a kobold blush.  "Of--of course I did!" she said, reaching into a pouch on her thigh.  She rummaged around.  "Come on, I have it in here somewhere…" 

He waited.

She pulled out a pair of goggles and snapped them over her face.  She looked at him, and at the deck around him, as if expecting some hidden trap to be revealed.

"I'm sorry," he said, for the third time.  Knowing that his response was inadequate, but hoping she would at least see he was sincere.

She squinted through the tinted lenses.  "You're lying," she said.  "All gnomes are liars!"

He sighed.  "Some would say all kobolds are foolish and vicious.  Would you believe them?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then what makes you think all gnomes are liars?"

She was silent.  Her throat trembled. 

"Listen," he said, getting to his feet.  "I can't bring your brother back.  I can't undo what I've done.  But my friends and I, we're trying to bring back the gods.  All of them, including Kurtulmak.  You could join us."  He extended a hand to her.

She studied his hand for what felt like an age.  She drew herself up.  "Have you killed a kobold before?" she asked, very quietly.  "Not by the Oculus.  By your own hands."

He looked at his hand, too.  Dozens of scars should have been there from the century-long mission.  But the Bond Engine had wiped them clean every cycle.  Giving him an absolution he didn't deserve.

"Yes," he said, dropping his hand and meeting Ozrith's gaze.  "Not on this world, but yes."

She stood staring at him, her narrow chest rising and falling with each breath.  Slowly, she raised the dagger again, pointing it at his chest.  "For your honesty, I will…I will grant you mercy for this one night," she said, intoning her words with stumbling gravitas, as if she were on a stage and had forgotten her lines.  "But when we meet again, I _will_ kill you."

He sighed.  "Well," he said, glancing out at the placid ocean.  It was a shame.  He really had enjoyed their duet.  "Then I hope, for both our sakes, that we never meet again." 

"Yeah," she mumbled beneath her breath.  "Me too."

When he looked again, Ozrith was gone.

 

#

 

Davenport stepped quietly into the ship's darkened common room.  Arumdina gleamed softly on the wall.  "Hey, Arumdina?"

"Yeah, Kiddo?  What's up?  You, uh, feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, ignoring her solicitous tone.  "I just, ah…had a question about Garl.  Seeing as I've, uh, met so many Garls and their lore is different on every world."  He hesitated.  "Did Garl…kill Kurtulmak?"

"Oh, hell yeah!" she said.  "Definitely.  And that asshole deserved it, too."

"Oh."  He felt the breath leave him.  He sat down hard on a stool.  "How…why…?"

She paused.  "You really want this story now?" she said, sounding more surprised than reluctant. 

"Yeah, hit me.  I'm curious."

"If you're sure, then.  So, a long time ago--don't know how long, but it was a long time ago by mortal standards--Kurtulmak was just a really powerful kobold.  And he was vicious and dumb and kind of a show-off.  So he built this huge underground palace and invited dozens of gods to come look at how great he was.  Like, the dwarven pantheon and the gnome pantheon and pretty much all the good gods.  But the whole thing was a trap!  Garl showed up first, and he didn't take two steps into the palace before he saw that the whole place was rigged to collapse.  Kurtulmak literally spent a couple centuries building this elaborate trap, and all he had to do was pull out a special cornerstone and the palace would come crashing down to bury all his enemies.

"Well, Garl wasn't having _that._   So he did what he always does when petty idiots try to out-think him.  He triggered the trap early, hoisting Kurtulmak by his own petard.  So that scaly bastard was crushed by his own stupid palace.  And serves him right!"

"Oh," he said.  "Garl, uh…never told me about that."

She sighed in the dark.  "Honestly, he doesn't like talking about it.  Kurtulmak was so furious about being outsmarted that he literally came back as a god, fueled by his hatred of Garl.  And he started a war.  Kobolds and gnomes had had…skirmishes before, but this was the real deal.  It was awful, and it was bloody, and countless gnomes died just because one angry kobold had it out for him."

He scratched his beard.  "Well, I mean…we're not at war _now_ , are we?  The Day of Story & Song brought a lot of people together.  And maybe gnomes and kobolds don't have to fight just because the gods--"

"Didn't you hear what I said?" she snapped, and there was real anger in her voice.  "Kurtulmak started this, and he dragged both our peoples into it!  And the kobolds never questioned it.  They were happy to have an excuse to make war, and to kill as many gnomes as they could.  Kobolds are stupid and vicious and cruel, and the Day of Story & Song didn't change that.  If a kobold came within ten feet of this ship right now, I would cut their head clean off their shoulders.  I don't care if you're there to swing me or not, I will find a way to fly at them!"

He got to his feet.  "It's late," he said.  "I'm going to bed."  He couldn't deal with all this bad blood.  Right now, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in the warmth of his blankets and listen to Marmalade purr beside him. 

"Yeah, you'd better get some more rest," Arumdina said lightly, as if she hadn't just been offering to commit murder on his ship.  "Mortals need lots of rest, right?"

He mumbled something unpleasant under his breath, and stalked off to his berth.


	9. The Better Angels of Our Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merle doesn't understand kids these days. Lucretia goes angel hunting. Taako gets it.

"Well, kids, here we are!" said Merle.  "Treeheart, the largest Pannite temple on Faerun!"  He spread his arms wide, showing off the massive, multi-story wooden temple.  It was barely visible beneath the climbing vines on its walls and the bushes and saplings growing on its terraces.

"Wow, cool!" said Mookie, dashing down the bank towards it.

Mavis hung back.  "Is it supposed to be that overgrown?"

Merle scratched his beard.  Truth was, he'd never made a pilgrimage here.  He'd gone when he was a kid, but that was a different temple.  And after he came to Faerun and his memory got all scrambled, he never bothered to come to _this_ temple because he thought he already had.

"We can hope," he said, and meant it.  The feverish growth of plant life hadn't slowed down as they'd traveled.  He'd used the Staff of Seasons in order to contain it, but even though the staff was powerful, its range only extended so far.  He had a bad feeling in his gut that this strange effect was happening in places he couldn't see.

As they drew closer, he spotted several acolytes hurrying around the temple grounds, clearing out choked gutters and bracing support beams against the outer walls.  The building groaned in the wind.

Mavis's eyes narrowed.  "I'm not sure it's safe to go in," she said.  "I don't think it was built to support that amount of weight."

Merle glanced at Taako.  But the elf was still stewing in whatever funk he'd fallen into, and was staring off into the distance, radiating aggressive disinterest in the scene in front of him.

Merle sighed.  A team of acolytes came out of the temple carrying baskets, and started to pick fruit from a cluster of trees beside the main entrance.  They couldn't pick fast enough; more fruit was forming and fulling as he watched, and anything not picked in time grew heavy and dropped.  The ground around the trees was pock-marked by rotten fruit.

He tapped the Staff of Seasons against the main path.  The fever broke, and the overgrowth retreated.  The fruit-pickers looked around in confusion.

"Yer welcome!" said Merle, waving to them.  "I'm Earl Merle Highchurch, here to speak to whoever's in charge."

Despite how much everything sucked, it was still nice to see the looks of shocked recognition on their faces.  There was a lot of fussing and confusion and "Right this way, Earl Highchurch!"  Now that the plant life was back to its normal growth, more of the temple was visible, and it no longer groaned like an old man with a bad back.

The interior was like a giant gazebo, all slatted wood latticework and hanging plants.  The central floor was a soft carpet of grass and mosses.  Light and wind streamed in from half a dozen large, open windows, making the wood glow softly golden and illuminating several colorful tapestries of Pan himself surrounded by flowers and trees.

"Well," he said, "check this out!  Pretty on fleek, huh?  Is that what your friends would say?"

Taako groaned, pulling his hat down over his face.

Mavis blinked.  "I, uh, don't think any of them would use that term in this context," she said.  "I don't think any of them would use that term at all."

"Oh."  Damn slang, always changing so fast.  How was a parent supposed to keep up?  "It's still pretty cool though!  Right?"

Mavis looked around.  "It's nice," she said, but in a tone that suggested she was just being polite.

He took a deep breath.  "You can really feel the power of Pan, here," he said.  "Pan is everywhere, of course.  But especially here."

Mavis blinked.  "But he isn't here, though," she said, very quietly.  "He's gone, like the others."

Her words were like a punch in the gut.  He sighed.  "Listen, Mavis," he said, "ya gotta have faith even in the dark times.  That's what faith means.  It's like…knowing without seeing.  We don't know that Pan can hear us, but we pray anyway."

"Dad, I—"  Mavis broke off.  She studied her toes.  "Never mind."

Merle stared at his daughter, wondering what it was he'd said wrong his time.  He felt--not for the first time--like he'd just stepped on a land mine without knowing it.  He was trying, he really was!  But there were things going on in Mavis's head that he couldn't guess at.  She was a thinker, not a talker.  Like Dav, or like Taako when he got into one of his moods. 

He opened his mouth to ask what was eating her, but a loud whoop on the other side of the chamber reminded him that he'd taken his attention off Mookie for two minutes.

His son was halfway up a tree growing alongside one wall.  "Lookit me, dad!" he called.

"Impressive," said another voice. 

Merle turned to see a tiefling stepping into the central room, flanked by a pair of acolytes.  He wore rustically woven robes of white and green, and a crown of flowering vines was draped across his horns.  He spread his arms in welcome.  "Merle Highchurch, so nice to finally meet you!  I am Damakos, high priest of Treeheart.  You've come at an interesting time!  I've been informed that you were able to turn back the green tide that's been swallowing us."

"Yeah, about that," said Merle.  "Ya got any insight into what's causing that?"

Damakos glanced at the rest of the group, his mouth tight.  Probably worried about spooking the masses.

"They're with me," said Merle.  "They already know.  We're here to help."

Damakos's shoulders relaxed, just a little.  "Unfortunately, we don't know what's causing this strange overabundance.  It is as if, in Pan's absense, the land itself is giving in to chaos.  I fear that if it's not checked soon, the forest will choke itself out."

Merle knelt down and brushed his fingers against a clump of moss near his feet.  Now that the Staff had done its job, there was no feverish energy burning through the growth.  There wasn't even a trace that it had ever been there.  It was perfectly normal moss.  "Has the overgrowth been centered on the temple?" he asked. 

Damakos shook his head.  "We've heard reports from clerics all over the world, reporting similar anomalies of the natural world run amok.  It is happening in all the places sacred to Pan, but also in seemingly random locations."

Merle's gut churned.  Suddenly the Staff in his hands seemed woefully inadequate.  It was like a whole bunch of mini-Gaia Sashes had been unleashed on the world.  If this got much worse, and it was happening everywhere…

He was only one dwarf.

He got to his feet.  "Have you, uh, heard anything from the Homestead?" he asked. 

"Ah, yes, our neighbor temple," said Damakos.  "We sent runners to inquire if they were having similar problems."

"And?"

He shook his head.  "The runners have not returned.  I'm beginning to fear they might be in similarly dire straits.  We've always kept in close communication with them—their philosophy aligns closely with ours—and the fact that we have heard nothing is cause for great concern."

Merle frowned.  That wasn't good.

From his perch in the tree, Mookie gasped.  "Dad, we gotta go rescue them!" he said, swinging down over the branch and dropping to the grass floor.  "C'mon, let's go be heroes!"

To be honest, Merle was halfway to asking Damakos to keep an eye on his kids while he went to investigate.  Messengers not returning was never a good sign, and this adventure might be turning out to be a little more dangerous than he liked.

But Mookie was looking at him with those big, eager eyes, and he knew that there was no way he'd leave his kid behind.  He couldn't, even if he wanted to.  Mookie would find a way to follow him.  The safest his son could be was where Merle could keep an eye on him.

And Mavis…well, he wasn't gonna mend whatever this silence was between them if he left her behind again.  She was smart--so smart!--and capable, too.  She'd been on more than one extreme teen adventure, and always kept a cool head.  Last thing she wanted was for her own dad to treat her like she couldn't handle herself.

He glanced at Branda and Taako.  Branda gave him a big grin and a thumbs-up.  Taako just shrugged.

He took a deep breath.  He might be only one dwarf, but this was one thing he could do.  Just take it a step at a time, focus on the problem right in front of him.  "Okay, then," he said.  "Let's go be heroes."

 

#

 

Look, Taako got it.  It wasn't cool, it wasn't fair, but he got it.  He understood. 

He had a job to do.  And Kravitz and Lup and Barry, the three people he loved in this world more than any other, had their jobs to do.  And that job just happened to entail poking around in the celestial realms while a god-eating _something_ was on the loose. 

Fuck, there were times like this when he wished Kravitz wasn't so damned good at his job.  When he wished some other Reaper could take on this task so his boyfriend wouldn't have to risk himself.  Yeah, Krav's body was a construct, but they had no idea what this thing could _do._ And Lup and Barry were both fuckin' powerful, but he didn't want to lose them.  He didn't want to lose anyone.

He was so tired of losing people.

Absently, he thumbed the Stone of Farspeech in his pocket.  In theory, he could call Krav at any time.  But time got all weird when jumping between planes, and from Krav's old-ass perspective, they probably parted ways like a few hours ago.

And honestly, he didn't want to phone up during an investigation just to whine about how lonely and scared he was.  A century of fighting the Hunger had taught him how to accept that his loved ones would be in danger sometimes.  He didn't have to _like_ it, but he could accept it.  He had to accept it, he had to know how to buckle down and do his own damned job.  But this time was different, and it wasn't just their lack of a Bond Engine.  He could feel it in the base of his spine.

He just wanted to curl up with Krav, run his long fingers through his boyfriend's dark braids, and tell him--

His throat tightened.  No, he couldn't tell him that.  Lup, definitely.  Barry, probably.  Maybe Mags, if he worked up the courage.  But not Krav.  Not now, at least, when the poor guy had enough on his plate without having to triage Taako's fucked-up past.

He realized Merle was looking at him.  He'd been asked something but fuck if he knew what it was.  He just shrugged, brushed a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and shoved his hands back in his pockets.

His fingers brushed up against the wadded-up sampler from Istus.  He felt the fine stitches of her embroidered letters, telling him to stop dicking around and just apologize.

Gods, he wished he could.

 

#

 

"So, hypothetically," came Ozrith's voice, "say if I _did_ want to put in the time to get better at singing.  Where would I start?  I'd ask Captain Davenport, but he's not here."

From the other side of the tree, Davenport took a deep breath.  "Well, if Ozrith were here—which she isn't—I would tell her that the key to mastering singing starts with good breath control.  I'd ask her to pay attention when she breathes.  You'll want to—"  He quickly corrected himself.  "At Legato, my maestro told me to put my hand lightly on my belly—over my diaphragm—and feel it expanding and contracting as I breathe.  I was breathing with my shoulders—they'd go up when I inhaled—but he advised me to keep my shoulders steady and breathe with my diaphragm.  In, and out.  In, and out."  He demonstrated, going through his breathing exercises.  From the other side of the tree, he heard Ozrith following him, her breathing exaggerated.

The kobold had been persistent in following him as he guided the _Wave Smasher_ up the river.  But she had been just as persistent in not ever "meeting" him, so she would never have to attack.  When he took his evening walks, he would sing and she would sing along, feeling out the harmonies as she slipped through the shadows just out of sight.  And he would use the sound of her voice to pinpoint her location, and studiously never look in that direction.  For her part, she did the same.  Thus they danced around her promised assassination, never looking at each other, never acknowledging the other's presence.

And now, he had a student.

It was nice, actually.

The journey upriver was getting more difficult by the day.  The river narrowed and its flow grew stronger, though the usual spring flooding should have subsided by now. On top of that, his frustration with the maps grew daily.  The points that marked this enemy force's appearances seemed to be random along the borders of the various celestial realms.  Yet among Garl's notes had been one curious annotation:  the words "There's a pattern to this," written in his delicate golden script.  No other clues suggested what that pattern might be.  And so, Davenport spent his days carefully navigating his _Wave Smasher_ up the increasingly uncooperative river, and spent his evenings staring at those damned maps, hoping to spot whatever 'pattern' Garl had been alluding to.

So he actually found these evening walks a rather nice break.  As long as he kept Ozrith well away from the ship.  As long as he didn't tell Arumdina.

He took Ozrith through a round of basic vocal exercises.  "If Ozrith were here," he said, "I would advise her to practice these on her own.  Good breathing will form the basis for good vocal strength."

Ozrith was silent for a moment.  "If Captain Davenport were here," she said, and her voice was very quiet, "I'd thank him for his help."

He closed his eyes.  "And if Ozrith were here, I'd tell her that it was my pleasure.  And I'd mean it."

He heard a rustle of grass, and the soft pad of her footsteps as she left.  He made his way back to the ship, humming softly to himself.  Overhead, the stars burned ever more brightly in the sky. 

They'd reach the Root tomorrow.  He only hoped that Cyrrollalee could give them some insight into their enemy, before the sky itself fell apart.

 

#

 

The North Park of Neverwinter's merchant district had changed since Lucretia had last been here.  Several of the oldest, largest trees were missing, and new saplings had been planted in other places.  A flower bed she'd never seen before ran alongside the main footpath, dotted with tiny rose bushes that promised to grow much bigger over the years.

But for all that, it was still the park she remembered, with its cheerful pedestrians and the sounds of dogs barking, and the smell of fried food coming from little push carts. 

She'd come here often, back in the days she'd lived in Neverwinter before the moon base was built.  She took Davenport here on his better days, and they'd spent many a pleasant afternoon feeding the ducks at an ornamental pond.  In the center of that pond was a statue of an archon—an angel—slaying a demon.

She rounded the bend.  The pond came into sight.  The angel statue was gone.

She stopped and stared.  A new statue was in its place: a sculpture of three children not unlike the flesh-and-blood children who enjoyed the park around her.  One was pulling back a Frisbee as if to throw it, a puppy waiting eagerly at his feet.  Another child pointed up at the sky, his expression full of quiet wonder, as if he were finding shapes in the clouds. 

But it was the third child, an elven girl, who caught Lucretia's eye.  She crouched at the edge of the pedestal, a large sketchbook open on her lap.  She peered over the edge, as if she were sketching the ducks in the pond beneath her.

Bittersweet nostalgia shivered up her spine.  Lucretia had been that girl, once:  in a childhood over a hundred years away, on a world she could never go back to.

She sighed.  She was getting too damn old for this.

She glanced around, and saw a very familiar cart parked by the curve of the pond.  A halfling in a blue-and-yellow cap and apron sat on a stool beside it, whistling.  The smell of candied almonds wafted over to her.

"It's been a long time, Merric," she said.  "I don't suppose I could get the usual?"

The halfling jumped to attention.  A grin spread across his face.  "Well, I'll be!" said Merric.  "If it isn't Lucretia herself!  To think, I'd been serving up my snacks to a world-saving wizard from another world, and never even knew it!"  He tipped up the brim of his cap to get a better look at her.  "It'd be my honor to serve you again, and this one's on the house."  He scooped up a bagful of candied roast almonds and handed them over.

She thanked him.  It always embarrassed her when people tried to shower her with gifts, but she had learned to accept them graciously.

He glanced around.  "Where's your companion?" he asked, raising the question she'd been dreading.  "That was, uh, Captain Davenport, wasn't it?  He, um, seemed very different in the Story."

Her stomach twisted.  "He was under a curse," she said.  "He's better now."  It was close enough to the truth, and better than a lengthy and complicated explanation of what had actually happened.  The world didn't know about how she'd fed her family's memories to the Voidfish, and through some unspoken agreement, they'd all decided not to make it public.

"Well," he said, "you tell him that if he ever wants to swing by North Park again, there's a free bag of almonds waiting for him."  He grinned.

"I'll definitely tell him about your nuts," she said.  She gestured to the new pond statue.  "If you don't mind my asking, what happened to the archon?"

"Oh, that?"  His thick, chestnut-brown eyebrows lifted.  "Unfortunately it was broken in the Hunger's attack.  We decided to replace it."

"It's a very different choice of subject matter," she remarked. 

He shrugged.  "Yeah, a bunch of us vendors got together with the park management and debated what to put there.  We decided that after the Day of Story & Song, we really wanted to commemorate the park itself, and the little joys people find here.  What it means to the community, you know?  There are so many memorials to the battles of that day, and to the people who fought.  We wanted to show what they fought _for."_

A little smile tugged up the corner of her mouth.  "It's beautiful," she said.  It might not be the angel anymore, but she was glad she saw it, all the same.

"That means a lot, coming from one of the Birds," he said, offering her a shy smile.  "I'm glad that's what we went with.  Ol' Tom wanted a statue that was more…martial.  Hungerlings being cut down, people swinging swords.  Fountain water spraying out of wounds.  But nobody comes to the park to see that."  He rolled his eyes.  "But then, Ol' Tom's been obsessed with war ever since he fell in with his new friends."  He made airquotes around the word 'friends.'  "If they had their way, there'd be monuments to the glories of war on every street corner."  He rolled his eyes.  "No thanks.  I'll take my statue of kids playing any day."

"I'd toast to that, if I had some wine," said Lucretia.  She munched down on a handful of almonds.  "I don't suppose, though, that you know of any other prominent angels in Neverwinter, now that this one's gone?"

He shrugged.  "Check the temples, maybe?"  He tilted his head as another customer arrived, a broad-shouldered aarakocra wearing a cloak with the hood up.

Lucretia stepped aside and let the halfling return to his work.  She wondered what temples in Neverwinter might have angel statues. 

The aarakocra turned to face her, and his eyes widened.  Lucretia had never seen him before, but she'd seen his face plastered on a number of posters hung on Angus's old dorm room on the moon base.

"Jeff Angel?" she asked.

Merric looked up, eyes wide and one hand on his chest, as if two world-famous celebrities patronizing his stand at the same time was too much for his heart to handle. 

Jeff Angel stared at Lucretia, beak open.  "It's you," he said.

Lucretia inwardly winced, waiting for the inevitable and over-the-top displays of gratitude.

But he just looked around, as if he feared they might be spotted, and said, "Come with me."

He hadn't taken two steps before Lucretia fully processed his name.  The Angel, not _of_ Neverwinter, but _in_ it.  She followed him out of the park, heart pounding, thoughts whirling.

"I was told—" she began.

"Yeah," he said.  "I've been looking for you.  We all have.  Figured it'd only be a matter of time."  He turned down a side street, and stopped at a nondescript door.  "So, uh, what you're about to see, it's super top secret.  Jeff Angel always tells the truth, but in this case, he keeps his beak shut, because he honors his promises.  So…do you promise to keep your beak shut?"

She raised an eyebrow.  "I ran a secret world-saving operation for a decade," she said.  "I think that's, uh, something I'm quite qualified at."

He gave her a stern look, and nodded.  "Jeff Angel chooses to trust you," he said, and opened the door.

She followed him down a set of stairs to a large, rune-covered iron door.  He pressed his hand against it and spoke in a language even she didn't recognize.  The runes glowed; locks clicked, gears turned, and the door opened.

She followed Jeff onto a narrow catwalk overlooking a large room with a printing press running in the center.  Beside it, a wiry man with bright red hair and thin gold-rimmed spectactles looked up.  He smiled.  A few others looked up from what they were doing.  She got the distinct impression she had just interrupted a very busy office.  Everyone was looking at her. 

"Uh, greetings," she said.  "I am Madame Director Lucretia, of the Bureau of Benevolence."

The wiry man skipped up the steps two at a time, and thrust out a hand to shake.  "Welcome, Madame Director," he said.  "I'm Jeff Jeffins, and this…"  He waved a hand to indicate the operation below them, "is the Jeff Report."


	10. The Open Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucretia gets a new job opportunity. Barry tries to science the problem. Lup stops to smell the flowers.

Lucretia took in the enormous printing press, the small but bustling staff managing it, and the earnest smile of the man standing in front of her.  She raised an eyebrow. 

"Jeff Jeffins," she said, "of the Jeff Report?  Aren't you in the wrong planar system?  I should also add that the Jeff Jeffins I know was about six inches taller, with black hair."  She hadn't personally known the editor-in-chief of the eponymous weekly paper whose operating headquarters were only a few miles from the IPRE campus.  But Jeffins had been a regular at all sorts of public events.  The Jeff Report had been a small-circulation paper, but it had a decent reputation for its high editorial standards and a focus on personal interest stories from around the world.  She recalled picking up an issue whose headline was about a group committed to planting a million trees; below the front-page fold was a story of a halfling couple that had made a recent breakthrough on the arcane science of "scone magic."

This Jeff Jeffins gave her a sheepish smile.  "No doubt I'm very different from the one you know," he said.  "But there is a Jeff Report in every planar system, and Jeff Jeffins is the pen name of the editor-in-chief.  I'm sure you have a lot of questions, but I'm here to answer them."

"We're here to help!" said Jeff Angel, flexing.  "To spread truth, and maintain high standards of journalistic integrity!  All in the name of JeffAndrew!"

Lucretia caught her breath.  She'd never told anybody about JeffAndrew.  And she was pretty sure the rest of her family hadn't said a word about it, either.  Taako might have, she supposed…but he didn't speak to her much, these days.  And even if he had decided to brag about meeting one of the creators of the multiverse…how did one put JeffAndrew into words?  How to convey the experience of being in such a presence?  How--

"Listen," said Jeff Jeffins, "I see we have a lot to talk about.  To start, yes, we know about JeffAndrew.  Jeff Angel and I both work for him, and we keep in touch daily."

Jeff Angel pointed at her.  "Because Jeff Angel calls his dad every single day!"  he said, speaking as if he were calling out an opponent in the ring.  "Because JeffAndrew is like a father to him.  And you should always check in with your loved ones!  And eat your vegetables!  Because good nutrition and good communication are vital for your health!"  He flexed some more.

"I'll be sure to pencil both of those in," she said dryly.

Jeff Jeffins chuckled.  "He's not wrong, though.  Come, Director Lucretia—this way."  He led her down to the press floor.  A couple of staff members hurried past, one balancing a tray of steaming coffees and another carrying a stack of freshly-printed issues.  Jeffins plucked a paper from the stack, nodded, and handed it to her.  "We here at the Jeff Report have a simple but critical part to play.  We collect stories for JeffAndrew, and publish them so that he, and the inhabitants of this world, can see life how it is.  We don't collect the grand stories such as you chronicled, Lucretia.  We don't record the major pushes and pulls of political figures, or the sensational disasters published by our fellow journalists.  Instead we focus on the smaller, daily stories that make up our lives in this world." 

She glanced down at the issue in her hands.  The paper stock and font choices were different than the Jeff Report she'd known on Tosun, but the subject matter was similar.  Above the fold, a headline declared "Baby Birds!  Springtime Brings New Generation of Feathered Friends."  Below the fold was an interview with a tiefling urban beekeeper who was starting her own business of specialty honeys in Rockport.

"I see," said Lucretia.  "So you are chroniclers for JeffAndrew?"

"Typically, yes," he said.  "But in these difficult times, we must become something more.  Do you know what happens when the gods leave?"  He stopped, turning on his heel to regard her.

"Typically, the power of their clerics is cut off," she said.  "At least, that's been my experience for a hundred cycles."

"And that cutoff happens because the Hunger forms a barrier between the celestial realms and the prime material plane," said Jeffins.  "But that's not what's happening here.  There is no barrier.  Celestial power still flows.  It's just that the gods are no longer here to act as conduits.  Here, imagine—if you will—a canal."  He held out his hands; a small illusory image formed, showing a green landscape.  "First you dig the channel, then you lay the stone or brick which forms the canal bed.  And then the water flows down the canal to its destination." As he spoke, the image shifted to match his description.  

"Yes, that is how canals traditionally work," said Lucretia. 

The corner of his mouth quirked at her wry comment.  "The gods are like canals," he said.  "Divine power flows from the celestial realms and they channel that power in specific ways, give it shape and form and direction.  Now—imagine you have water flowing in that canal, and suddenly the stone bed vanishes, leaving only a channel of raw soil.  At first, the water will flow—perhaps more strongly than before, less controlled, but still maintaining its previous direction.  But it won't be long before the soil starts to erode.  The land around it will become saturated, flooded perhaps.  And soon there will be no channel at all, just water pouring everywhere."  He gave her another sharp look, the rims of his spectacles flashing.  The landscape between his hands became slurry with mud and rushing water, before winking out entirely.  "Do you understand what I'm saying, Director?"

She frowned.  Her fingers tightened on her staff.  "The system breaks down."

He nodded grimly.  "Already we have had troubling reports of vegetal overgrowth, strange celestial events, spikes of magical power.  Which leads me to believe we're well into the first phase—the feverish rush of water still flowing but no longer controlled."

She took a deep breath, trying to process all this.  It was such a different apocalypse than what she was used to.  But it was an apocalypse nonetheless.  "How long do you expect this phase to last?"

"Unfortunately, I don't know," Jeffins admitted.  "But we here at the Jeff Report have a heavy task ahead of us, because we alone have the ability to slow this process down."  He gestured to the Jeff Report in her hands.

She glanced down at the paper, brow furrowed.  This edition was fresh off the presses, not an hour old.  "By writing stories about baby birds?" she asked.

He smiled.  "And about flowers blooming and people opening businesses and a family deciding what to eat for dinner.  We're no longer recording life, Director.  We are _maintaining_ it.  Its daily routines, its natural cycles of birth and growth and decay, its most mundane beauties and triumphs.  Each story is a single stone placed in the canal bed, enforcing its walls.  We may not be able to completely fill the bed, but any structure we can give it is better than none."

"I see."  She regarded the front-page picture, which showed an image of a nestful of fluffy chicks.  "And how much time can you buy this world?"

"It depends," he said, "on how many people can help."  He drew a quill from the pocket of his waistcoat, and held it out to her.  It was gleaming white, the same color as Jeff Angel's wings.  She glanced at the aarakocra, who shrugged.  "I shed a lot," he said.

"The Jeffs here are all people who've had an encounter with JeffAndrew, and been touched by his divine presence."  Jeffins waved one hand to take in the small handful of gathered folks.  "The people in this room are the only ones who can channel that power into the stories that structure our very world.  It might not be as grand a story as what you're used to chronicling, but these tiny stories are what the world is made of.  Even as the big stories move us to great actions, the tiny stories are the connective tissue that hold us together."

She regarded the quill, and the sincere, quietly pleading look on Jeffins' face.  "Just one question," she said.  "Do I have to be a Jeff?"

Jeffins laughed.  "No," he said.  "You could also be an Andrew."

Madame Director Lucretia Andrew.  Not the strangest name she's gone by in her long, strange life.  She took the quill.

 

#

 

Barry had a hypothesis.

He'd need to run some tests, of course.  He had precious little data to go on.  But a hypothesis was a starting point, and sometimes that was all he needed.

Here was what he knew:  this enemy force was huge, fast, and untraceable.  It had somehow taken out scores of gods in very little time, and even their combined force had done nothing to stop it.  They'd only made its job easier, by clustering together in the same place.

So.  He hypothesized that whatever this thing was, this being or force was built for tracking down and removing gods, without killing them.  It was a perfect divine predator, and existed for that purpose.

Of course, this raised all sorts of follow-up questions:  if it was removing them but not killing them, where were they being sent to?  How was it trapping them?  How was it cutting them off from their followers, but not cutting off their power? 

He had a second hypothesis, which he'd privately shared with Lup.  If this thing existed for the sole purpose of hunting down the gods, then if a god had escaped to the Prime Material Plane, it might still be in the place where the trail had been cut off.  Like a hound dog following a fox's trail and coming up abruptly to a stream, it might pace the streambank, sniffing and searching for a place where the trail picked up again.  The rest of his family knew that there might be a risk of the reapers coming across their enemy in the celestial realms.  But he hadn't told them that he was intending to go to where he thought it might be, and that this was the point.

But they needed data.  And this was the best way to get it. 

Sometimes science had risks.  And saving the world was never a safe or easy thing to do. 

So he, Lup, and Kravitz entered the realm of the halfling pantheon quietly and with caution.  The Green Fields were exactly as their name described them:  endless fields of long grasses and wildflowers, dotted with little cottages and gardens and a lovely vineyard.  Birds sang from the hedgerows, and butterflies and bees flitted in the gardens.  The place was as peaceful as a postcard. 

Which was another datapoint in his notebook.  There was no devastation to the countryside, no marks of struggle or signs of an attack.  For all he knew, the halfling pantheon had just got up and left.

"Nice place to raise the kids," said Lup.  "All it's missing is the white picket fence."

"Down there," said Kravitz, pointing to one of the cottages that abutted the vineyard.  "I think that's Cyrrollalee's."

"You've been here before?" asked Lup.

"No," he said.  "But that's the only cottage with its front door open."

The interior was pretty much what they expected, for a halfling goddess of hospitality.  It was just as picturesque as the landscape, with flowers and ivy painted on the exposed beams, vases of wildflowers on every end table, and the smell of baking still lingering in the air.  But in the corner of the living room was a well-worn denim bean bag that looked so incredibly comfy that Barry wanted to get one for his office.  And there was a bundle of dried lavender in a vase, just like his mother used to have in the study.

Lup took a sniff.  "Whoa," she said, "do I smell gingersnaps baking?"  A smile of warm nostalgia crept across her face.  "This place smells just like my aunt's cottage."

"Huh," said Barry.  "I smell apple pie baking.  And, uh, the lavender."

She looked around the room.  "What lavender?  I'm just seeing lots of roses.  Gods, this is bringing back memories!"

"Huh."  He scratched his stubbly chin.  "If she's a goddess of, uh, home and hospitality, maybe her house changes for her guests?  Adds little things to make them feel welcome?"

"Huh," she echoed.  She picked up a small bunch of lavender, which slowly morphed into a single bright peachy-orange rose in her hand.  Like her contact had caused its form to settle.  "Check it out!" she said.  "Remember Tesseralia, and that cute little house we all shared?  These were the roses that grew along the brickwork outside.  Lucy used to keep a vase of them on the dining table."

"Oh geez, I remember those!"  He took the rose from her hand; this time, it remained a rose.  The memory brought a fresh flood of nostalgia to him.  There'd been few cycles that had made them all feel as welcome as Tesseralia.

Lup turned to Kravitz.  "What do you see, Krav?" 

Kravitz stared at the living room, eyes wide and mouth tight.  He shook his head.  "Let's focus on the task at hand," he said quickly, and entered the kitchen.

It was exactly as they'd seen in their vision, right down to the lump of half-kneaded dough on the counter.  They checked around the kitchen and the rest of the house for a good hour, but nothing else turned up that suggested what happened, or if Cyrrollalee had had any foresight about the attack.

Barry sighed as they headed outside again.  He'd gotten some interesting data about this particular goddess—he'd never seen so many cookbooks dedicated solely to scone recipes—but no signs of—

"What…is that?" said Kravitz.  He was shading his eyes as he stared at the horizon.  At the strange form moving there.

A serpent undulated back and forth over the Green Fields.  It was deep red in color, like a line of blood welling across the painfully blue sky.

Barry stepped back, trying to get a better sense of its size as it moved.  But the more he stared, the more he realized it was incredibly far away, and unimaginably huge.  It made the purple worm of Refuge look like a garden snake.

"We should go," Kravitz whispered.

"We should try to get closer," said Lup.

He glared at Lup.  "Are you crazy?  We are too close already!  We—"

"Uh, guys?" said Barry.  "I think it's moving in our direc—"

"Holy shit!"  Lup jumped back as a shadow fell over them, her scythe forming in her hands.  The serpent was sailing over the village, swinging its head slowly back and forth over the cluster of cottages.  

He had no idea how it had reached them that fast.  He got a brief glimpse of its features:  a blunt head, a wide mouth, a line of three black eyes on each side of its head.  Its face imprinted on his brain along with the certainty that they were all going to die now (except Kravitz, who would double-die).

And then he was staring at its deep red belly, weaving slowly overhead like a snake through water.  Moving past them.  As if it hadn't seen them at all.

None of them moved. 

The serpent moved on.  And on.  It seemed to stretch from one horizon to the other.  In the back of his head, he could hear Taako making some sort of crack about "legs for days" but all he could do was stare in growing horror at the sheer size of this thing, waiting for a tail end that might never come.

And then the shadow lifted.  They stood frozen to the spot, in the middle of a quaint halfling village, as the serpent continued sailing over the far horizon.

Kravitz let out a breath that, technically, he didn't need.  "All right," he said, still barely speaking above a whisper.  "I take it that's the thing we're looking for.  We've got a good look, now we should—"

Lup fired off a pot shot at its tail.

"—do exactly not that," Kravitz finished.

The fireball poofed against the very tip of its underbelly.  Everyone froze for a second time.

But the serpent didn't react.  It just kept moving away from them.

"Interesting," said Lup.

Barry's head whirled with even more questions.  Had it simply not felt the attack?  Or had it been completely unconcerned about it?  Did this imply fire immunity, a thickly armored skin, or a body so vast that a single fireball simply didn't register?  

Kravitz summoned his scythe.  "Okay, the science experiment is over, kids," he said.  "We're leaving.  Now."  He sliced open a portal to the Prime Material Plane.

The serpent stopped.  It twisted in midair, all six eyes swinging around to stare right at them.  A rumbling growl rose from its vast throat, a sound so deep and loud it was like the Fields themselves were groaning.

"Oh shit," said Lup.

_"Go go go!"_   Kravitz waved them at the portal.

It was like being slammed by a gargantuan train.  Barry was knocked spinning to the ground as the serpent roared past him, ramming straight into the portal.  He rolled through the grass and came up coughing.  Lup was not far from him, but she was already back on her feet and sailing into the sky, scythe gleaming in her hands.  "Krav?!" she called.

Barry pushed himself up.  He could only watch in horror as the endless length of the serpent's body poured through the portal, which had been torn wide open by its passage.

Eventually, finally, it was over.  The stretched-open portal showed blue sky, and pleasant white clouds.  A perfect day in Faerun.

"Krav?!" Lup shouted again.  "You'd better not have been eaten by that thing!"

A slim black-clad arm lifted from the tall grass.  "Here," groaned Kravitz.  He'd been knocked to the opposite side of the serpent.

Barry exhaled in relief.

"Thank Bird Mom," said Lup.  She looked at the gaping portal.  "We should let the others know.  Because this is capital-B Bad."

Barry stared at the portal.  The open door to Faerun.

Shit.  He hated when prophecies had double meanings.

"We need to follow that thing," he said.  "Because I bet you, it's heading straight for Cyrrollalee." 


	11. Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucretia spots a new arrival. Kravitz worries about paperwork. Magnus arrives too late.

High Empyreal Wick strode out of his chambers in a simple brown suit, understated but tailored well enough that he didn't look shabby and therefore desperate.  Brother Fury glanced over him and silently approved of the man's choices.  Fury knew a thing or two about the importance of controlling one's image.  And while a good leader needed to project strength, sometimes the wolf needed to dress in a sheepskin to slip properly into the flock.

Today Brother Wick would be meeting with the mayor of Goldcliff, who detested anyone who tried to upstage him in his own office.  And if all went well, there'd be fresh gold pouring into the coffers of their little cult.  If things didn't go well, then…it would definitely push back their timetable.

He followed Wick out into the rough streets of Goldcliff, eyes out for danger.  Last thing he wanted was anyone sticking a sword into his golden goose before he was ready to pluck the thing himself.

They hadn't gone half a block when something in the sky caught the corner of his eye.  It looked like a dragon of some kind, sailing quickly off into the distance.  A strange dragon, long and wingless, moving like a snake.

Wick stopped where he was, eyes fixed on it as it made for the horizon.

"The hell is that?" Fury growled, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

Wick stood in silence, head tilted slightly, as if he were listening to someone whisper in his ear.  He nodded once, then turned back and headed for the nondescript door of the basement church that was their new headquarters.

"Sir," said Fury, hurrying to keep up, "you're going to be late—"

"There's time enough for this," he said simply.  He opened the door and called for his secretary, Brother Gear (aka The Gear that Turns Heaven's Great Machine and Crushes the Unworthy).  In a moment, Brother Gear appeared, a high-strung and eager gnome with unnervingly bright and glassy eyes, like he was always running a low fever. 

"Yes, High Empyreal?" he sniveled.

"We have received a sign from the heavens," said Wick.  "Our schedule must proceed more quickly."

"My lord!"  Brother Gear clutched the front of his robes in one white-knuckled fist.

"Call in Sister Herald.  I want a full update from her on the Sterling lead.  And tell the overseers that production must be sped up.  Put everyone on double shifts, if they must."

"Of course, my lord!"  Brother Gear's eyes widened as he stared off into space, like he was in the throes of some rapturous holy vision.  "It will be done as you command!"  He rushed back into the darkness of the basement.

Fury glared after him.  He had no idea if Brother Gear's behavior was just histrionics or if he really was that far gone.  Either way, it pissed him off.

Wick nodded.  "Now," he said, turning back to Fury.  "It's time to deal with the mayor."

 

#

 

"…The newly-installed fountain looks to be a mainstay of the park for many years to come, reminding all who visit of the small but vital pleasures that the green space provides—"

A knock sounded at Lucretia's office door.  She looked up from the sheet of paper in front of her, blinking hard.  She'd been so deep in her writing—her very first article for the Jeff Report—that she'd almost forgotten she was back on the moon.  "Come in," she called.

Avi popped his head in.  "Uh, Madame Director, sorry to bother you," he began.  "But you may wanna look out the window."

She got up from her desk and crossed to the large windows that looked out over the moonbase and the blue sky beyond it.  And the thin, blood-red ribbon that fluttered in the distance, moving at incredible speed along the horizon.  She rubbed one eye.  "What the—what am I looking at?"

"We don't really know," said Avi.  "Nobody on the base has seen anything like it."

The whatever-it-was passed over a distant line of low, green hills and stopped.  Its front end—Lucretia wasn't sure if _head_ was the right word—slowly tilted downward.

"Where has it stopped over?" she asked, throat tight.  Her Stone of Farspeech was already in her hands.

Avi squinted.  "Those are the Hills of Tethyr," he said.

"Oh, shit," said Lucretia. 

The Grapevine's Root.  Cyrrollalee.

Her Stone began to flash.

 

#

 

The Grapevine's Root never closed its front doors.  Its acolytes never turned away anyone.  Hospitality, trust, and friendship were the guidewords for all who followed the path of Cyrrollalee, warmed by the light of an ever-burning hearthfire.

When people started to arrive in droves, pushed out of the nearby hamlets by wildly overgrowing vines, the Root's hospitality did not lessen.  If anything, the acolytes who tended the outer vineyards of the temple's sprawling campus greeted their desperate neighbors with all the more warmth and compassion.  Troubled times like these were what communities were made for.  And the temple was one of the few unaffected spots in the Tethyr Hills.  It was safe here.  So everyone pulled out their extra blankets and trestle tables, aired out their spare rooms, and made space.

And if anybody noticed that the kitchens and larders never ran empty of food, that there always seemed to be an extra room available for the next troubled family to arrive, they all thanked Cyrrollalee.

They weren't wrong.

So the main temple doors were open when the giant red serpent came crawling across the sky like a line of blood.  Several acolytes rushed in, calling for the temple matriarch, shouting warnings to the handful of paladins of Yondalla who served as the temple's only defense.

Glissando Homebody stepped out into the temple's main hall, a rare frown pinching her aged face.  "Be calm, my friends," said the matriarch, her voice carrying a gentle authority that seemed to fill the hall.  She looked out at the serpent, who was close enough now that its shadow was falling over the outer vineyards.  She had never seen anything of this scale since the Hunger had dropped a column of tar at the edge of the temple grounds.  But this community had endured much in the three centuries she'd made her home here.  It would endure this.

She heard shouts of terror, the slamming of doors and windows.  Out in the gardens, startled halflings were running for shelter, or stood stock still, staring at a sky gone dark.  The strange serpent stopped right above them.

"My Lady," said one of the Yondallan paladins, "shall we engage?"  The question was laced with uncertainty.  Even though the serpent felt so close, it was still incredibly high up in the air, higher than any arrow could reach.  And she doubted any of the paladins had any attack spells with such range. 

"It has not attacked yet," she said.  "We should not provoke it.  Get everyone indoors, down into the basement larders.  Our main duty is to make sure everyone is safe.  And then--"  She looked up.  She could no longer see the sky outside her doors.  Fear gripped her old heart.

The kitchen doors swung open, and the smell of fresh baking bread wafted in, filling the hall.  "Be not afraid, my child," said Cyrrollalee.  "I will not allow harm to come to this place."

Glissando turned and bowed her head.  "My goddess," she said.

Cyrrollalee looked like an ordinary halfling woman, her age uncertain but her face beginning to show fine creases.  She did not glow, or float through the air.  Even as she stood in the doorway of the kitchen, she was wiping flour from her hands onto a faded apron patterned with flowers.

And yet, she seemed more _there_ than anyone else in the room.  As if Glissando were looking not at another halfling, but at the idea of one.  Her very presence was an anchor.

Cyrrollalee looked out at the serpent.  "It has come for me," she said.  "I will not allow it to destroy my children in its hunt."

It took a moment for Glissando to grasp what her goddess was saying.  She rushed to Cyrrollalee's side.  "My goddess," she said, "you can't go out there!  You must hide.  We can't lose you!"  Her heart caught in her throat.  "What would we do…?"  Her voice trailed off.  She could not bear to think of it.

Cyrrollalee placed one hand on Glissando's, and gave her a warm, sad smile.  "You will live, my child," she said.  "You will live, and carry on with everything I've taught you."  And then she leaned close, and whispered a message into Glissando's ear.  The old matriarch didn't hear her words, so much as feel them pressed into her heart.

Cyrrollalee gave her hand a squeeze.  "Tell the Birds, when they arrive.  I think they will need to hear it."

Glissando nodded mutely.  She was still afraid, but a warmth filled her now, nourished her like a fine meal.  She felt like she could live forever on that warmth.

And then Cyrrollalee turned and walked out of the temple.

Nobody moved.  Nobody spoke.  Glissando watched as her goddess took a staff from an acolyte by the door.  And with it, she drew a line in the worn dirt path, just beyond the temple threshold.  A signal to the serpent above:  _you shall not cross this line._   She handed back the staff, and looked up.

A red light filled the sky, glaring through the temple windows.  Glissando closed her eyes against it. 

And when she opened them, her goddess was gone.

 

#  


Magnus watched the serpent lift its head and fly away from the temple with a speed that surprised him.  He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was bad. 

_We're_ _too late_ , he thought.  The idea sat like a terrible weight in his gut.  Memories flooded him, of rushing towards people who needed help and showing up to rubble and corpses.  It had happened more times than he liked, during the Century.  It had happened at Raven's Roost.

Davenport swore under his breath, hands gripping the mane of the Phantasmal Mount that rushed them through the overgrown Hills of Tethyr.  He'd summoned it the moment they'd tied off his ship at the river docks, a pearlescent racehorse with a shimmering mane of silver-white filaments like bond threads.  It had seemed so fast, when his captain had first kicked in his heels and it had launched itself forward.  But now it seemed way too slow.

The Grapevine's Root was a sprawling temple complex of vineyards and gardens and stone pathways connecting buildings of creamy stone.  Magnus leapt off the horse as soon as they passed through the outer gate, assessing the situation.  Dozens of halflings stood or sat on the temple grounds, some in shock, others sobbing.  A cluster of them stood in a tight group embrace, heads bowed together.

Railsplitter was already in his hands.  But there was nothing to fight.  There was not even the hint of a past fight.  No torn-up ground, no shattered walls or broken gates.  Not a drop of blood to be seen anywhere.  It was sorrow alone that had knocked these people down.

Cap'nport had brought his phantom steed to a halt, and sat with one hand over his mouth, quietly surveying the scene.  He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.  "Excuse me," he said to a grim-faced paladin with a cornucopia painted on his shield.  "What happened here?"

Another nearby halfling burst into a fresh wail.  "Ruin!" he cried.  "Nothing but ruin!"

The paladin sighed and shook his head.  "A great sacrifice," he said.  "Follow me.  You'll no doubt be wanting to see the matriarch."

Cap'nport dismounted, dismissing the steed, and he and Magnus followed the paladin into the temple interior.  They passed more stunned and sobbing halfings, and a handful of paladins trying to comfort them.  A few others had taken up the cry of "Ruin, ruin!"

A familiar trio stood next to an aging halfling woman with a neat bun of silver hair, dressed in a tunic of plain brown homespun.  Barry looked up and spotted them.  "Magnus, Davenport."  His face was more pale than usual.  Beside him, Lup looked stricken and Kravitz was grim. 

The halfling elder nodded.  "I am Glissando Homebody, matriarch of this temple," she said.  She sounded very tired. 

"Captain Davenport," said Cap'nport.  "And this is Magnus Burnsides."

She nodded.  "Four of the Birds," she said, more to herself than to them.  "Are we expecting any more?"

"Not that I know of?" said Magnus.  "I mean, I honestly was only expecting it to be the two of us."

"Yeah, that was…"  Barry trailed off.  He wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.

"We fucked up," said Lup. 

"We encountered this…creature in the Green Fields," Kravitz clarified.  "It ignored us entirely.  But when we opened up a portal to escape, it immediately launched itself through."  He shook his head.  "I fear it sensed a pathway to Cyrrollalee, and took advantage of it."

Magnus's heart sank.  "So she's gone?"

Kravitz nodded.

"She sacrificed herself to protect us," said Glissando.  "She would rather give herself up than allow us to be destroyed by standing in harm's way."

Magnus opened his mouth, then closed it again.  He'd been surprised, maybe a little angry at first, thinking that the few paladins here hadn't even lifted their weapons to defend the goddess.  But this, he understood.  Cyrrollalee was a protector, like him.

Kravitz shook his head.  "I am so, so sorry.  We had no way of knowing, but that does not make this any less our responsibility." 

Glissando sighed.  "What's done is done.  You made your choice in ignorance, and Cyrrollalee made her choice in full knowledge.  Now it is all our responsibility to hold together in her absence."  She straightened her back.  "She has a message for you.  For all the Birds."

"She does?"  Barry blinked.  "Like she knew we were coming?  I mean, I guess that makes sense, for a goddess."

Glissando nodded.  She closed her eyes.  "War is coming," she said.  "But this time, you must not let it harden your hearts.  You are more than your past."  She opened her eyes, and looked at them all in turn.  "If you remember the love that binds us all together, you can break the cycle, before it's too late."

Cap'nport frowned.  "War," he said quietly.

"That's not good," said Kravitz.

Barry rubbed the back of his neck.  "Uh…did she specify which cycle we're supposed to be breaking, or…?"

"Well, we already broke a major cycle with the power of bonds once before," said Lup.  "So if all we have to do is love each other, I think we got this one in the bag."

"I don't think the god-eating serpent is going to go away with a group hug," said Kravitz. 

"And war is a serious issue," added Cap'nport.  "It'll be bad enough if there's widespread panic over the gods' disappearance.  If it breaks out into open conflict…"  He shook his head.

"And trust me," said Kravitz, "it's a whole mess of paperwork, besides."

The others looked at him. 

He shrugged.  "Sorry, a bit of gallows humor.  But it's true.  Nothing stirs up death cults and necromancy rings like a war."

"I don't suppose Cyrrollalee said anything more specific about this war?" asked Magnus.  "Like, where it was starting?  Any helpful tips?"

Glissando sat down on the steps that led up to the small, simple dais.  "That is all she said specifically.  But we are not fighters here.  Her wisdom has always been this:  sometimes the best way to win a fight, is to set down your weapons.  Tell me, Magnus, what is the opposite of war?"

"Uh, peace?" he said automatically.

The corner of her mouth curved in a tired smile.  "And what is peace?"

"Is this a riddle?  Like, what's the sound of one hand clapping?"

But the old halfling woman shook her head, still smiling weakly.  "I'll let you figure that one out," she said.  "All I know is, Cyrrollalee has faith in you.  So I will, too."

 

#

 

Brother Wick stood, picking up his case.  "Thank you again for your time, sir," he said.  "And I can guarantee that you will be satisfied with our products.  Your militia will have only the finest arms and armaments to keep your people safe during these troubled times."

"I should hope so," said Mayor Apollo Coronus of Goldcliff.  He stuck out a beefy, be-ringed hand, and smiled.  "One can never be too careful, these days."

Brother Wick smiled in turn.  "A pleasure doing business with you."


	12. When the Dam Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucretia helps direct bird traffic. Merle takes a big risk. Angus keeps an eye on the crowd.

_Ruin_ , they called it.  A fitting name, for such a herald of the apocalypse.  Lucretia could imagine a story where the end of the world was marked by a red serpent named Ruin. 

And yet, she also couldn't help but notice how ironic the name was.  Because Ruin wasn't ruining anything, technically speaking.  It just sailed over Faerun, attacking no one, ignoring the world turning below it.  In taking away Cyrrollalee, it had completed its goal--so Barry had theorized, in the frantic Stone calls they'd all shared in the wake of its appearance--and now it was content to just exist.

Perhaps it was waiting for something.  Lup had tossed that idea onto the table.  But Lucretia had a feeling that wasn't the case.  Truth was, if Ruin's goal was to end the world, there was nothing more it needed to do.  The world was already falling apart.  A rainstorm had parked itself over Neverwinter and was flooding the city.  Rockport had become a rainforest.  Two days ago, the moon base had been inundated by an immense flock of thousands of birds in dozens of different species, all migrating west for some reason.

Jeff Jeffins had called her as soon as Ruin had appeared.  He had no more insight into what it was than she did.  "Just write as many articles as you can," he'd said.  "It doesn't matter how mundane you think the topic is, just go for it!"

So when the moon base had been covered with confused birds, taking a brief rest on their mad flight to nowhere, she took out the angelic quill and wrote a story about the migration of birds.  What a sight it had been, to watch them flying north in the spring from the perspective of her moon base. 

As soon as she'd dotted the last sentence, a rush of fluttering wings had filled the air above the base, as every bird suddenly took off.  Some formed into flocks and V's, and took off to the north.  Others, presumably the non-migratory kind, took off in other directions.  As if they'd just realized their mistake and were heading back to their normal habitats.

She'd stared at the quill in her hand.  "Shit," she'd said.

So she continued to write.  Little things, about how the beat and thrum of magitech underscored daily life on the base.  An interview with the Fry Witch who ran the kitchen; the history of the Chug n' Squeeze.  She wrote about the flowers that bloomed on the quad, and even endured a lengthy interview with Billy the halfling groundskeeper, who was only too happy to tell her all about the specific plant breeds he'd cultivated to endure at such a high altitude. 

Meanwhile, the world continued to crumble below her.  Word had finally broken out about the missing gods, and rumors were spreading like wildfire.  She sent Killian, Carey, Brad, and any other BOB members with even a passable charisma to various towns and villages, to reassure people that the Bureau would do what it could to help, to remind people of the Day of Story & Song and the lessons it had shown the world about strength in togetherness.  She could only hope that it was mitigating the worst of the panic.  But she only had so many employees, and the world was a very big place. 

She herself had been shot all over Faerun in Avi's cannon, meeting with the rulers of every major city on the continent.  But her efforts there had been…less than reassuring.  The Mayor of Goldcliff, a self-absorbed noble by the name of Apollo Coronus, insisted that he didn't have time for soft speeches.  What he needed was to keep his people under control, and unless Lucretia was willing to offer him some good strong fighters to bolster the Militia, he wasn't interested.  The entire City Council of Rockport, meanwhile, had gone missing.  Literally wandered off into the depths of the rainforest after a copse of immense trees had swallowed the council building.  Their staff were desperately trying to hold the city together, helped by a volunteer corps of Bodetts.

Sterling had no new information to give her.  He was scrambling to organize relief efforts for his flooded city.  And the last she'd heard from Angus was that he was following up on some "promising leads." 

So she continued to write.  It felt like it was all she could do, in the face of the apocalypse.  She wrote about the daily life in Neverwinter, about the creatures of the Felicity Wilds, about the sound of the waves beating against the sands of Bottlenose Cove.  And when she was finished with each new article, she tapped her staff, and the stack of pages would vanish, to reappear on the desk of her new editor-in-chief.

She also wrote about her family; about jokes shared at family dinners, about poker nights at Magnus's new house in Raven's Roost, or beach parties at Merle's, or Davenport sailing up the coasts of Faerun.

She wondered if her words would be enough to keep them safe.

 

#

 

"Hold it together!" Branda shouted above the roar of the water.  Below her, a group of halflings were bracing a straining dam with logs.  Taako spun his Krebstar glaive, and the logs turned to stone, settling into the muddy bottom of the overflowing river.  The dam groaned as the rushing water continued to splash over its rim.  Rain came down in sheets.

"Uh, ya gonna do something about this, Merle?!" Taako called.  "Because things are gonna break pretty fast!"  There was a sudden cry from the riverbank, followed by a splash; he spun his Krebstar a second time, and a magic wind plucked a soaked halfling out of the water before the river could sweep him away.

"I'm on it, I'm on it!"  Merle waddled up to the slick, eroding bank, finding a relatively sturdy tree root to stand on.  Rushing water splashed against his toes.  He held up the Staff, unsure if he should aim for the overflowing river or the raging storm.  He looked at the dam, decided to go with his gut instinct, and drove the Staff into the water.

The flow was stronger than he'd expected.  His arm was yanked forward by the sudden force of it.  He grabbed the tree trunk with one hand, trying to stabilize his footing.  The Staff, slippery with rain, slid from his grip and fell into the river.  "Shit!"

Taako turned and raised his Krebstar, aiming for the bobbing dark wood.  But another snap and groan sounded behind him, as the dam began to collapse under the flood.  Water burst between the cracking wooden slats; people screamed.  He turned back and shot a spell at the dam, strengthening it. 

Clinging to the tree, watching the Staff float away, Merle decided he couldn't blame Taako.  He would have done the same.

A mage hand, shining with cool blue light, dove into the water and pulled out the Staff.  Mavis stood clinging to another sturdy tree, wand outstretched.

Merle burst out laughing.  "Great job, Mavis!" he cried over the noise.  He reached out and she mage-handed the Staff back to him.  "Now, keep it going…help me hold it while I work."  He guided the Staff so its tip was just touching the water, and with the Mage Hand supporting it, it stayed in place.  Light poured out of the Staff and into the water.

The river began to calm.  The flow eased, and the waterline slowly dropped.  The rain tapered off to something a bit more sensible.  The halfling crew cheered.

"All right!" Branda whooped.  "Great job, team!  Now let's get these worn-out folks back to the inn and get some ale into 'em!"

Merle sat down, suddenly weary to his bones.  There was still so much to do.  "I think we might need to do some healing, first," he said. 

"That's what the ale's for!" said Branda affably.  "We've got nothing here but some sore muscles and cold bodies, and maybe a few bruises.  Gettin' 'em warm and dry is just what the cleric ordered."  She clapped her hand on the shoulder of one crewman, who gave her a weary smile.

Merle didn't feel like arguing.  He could use a sit-down.  Or a nap.  Or hey, just a full ten hours of sleep in a warm bed.  He wasn't asking too much, was he?

They'd been rushing nonstop for days.  First Treeheart smothered under plants, then the Homestead cut off by a flooding river, then the village of New Armos threatened by a plague of thousands of rabbits multiplying everywhere.  He shuddered.  Gods, he loved all of Pan's creatures but rabbits gave him the heebie-jeebies.  And Mookie had tried to adopt a good ten of them before he'd talked his kid down.

As he walked back to the crossroads inn with the rest of the soggy group, he couldn't help but feel like he was just slapping band-aids on more and more wounds while doing nothing to stop the larger problem.  The overgrowth was getting worse, and he just couldn't keep up.  It wouldn't be as bad if the rest of his family was making some tangible progress--he was used to playing support--but they were just as stumped as he was. 

He'd promised his kids they'd all save the world.  And he was letting them down.

The inn's warmth was welcome.  He helped Branda get the others settled, healed a few bruised shins and scraped hands, made sure to order some hot bowls of soup to go along with the fresh ale she was plying them all with.  And then he told them he was gonna take a quick nap, and he wasn't to be disturbed unless Ruin itself knocked on the inn doors.

He made sure the door to his room was locked.  Then he took off his shirt, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and attempted to Parley Ruin.

Nothing.

He sat for a good half hour or so, waiting.  But all he got was an aching back and a foot starting to fall asleep.  He sighed, put on his shirt, and went back downstairs.  He heard Branda's loud voice, slurry with alcohol, cheering the crowd with some rowdy battle tale.  Mavis and Mookie were both with her, sitting on the edge of their seats as the cleric of Hanseath mimed punching some monster or other in the face.

He watched his kids, wondering what would happen to them if he was killed in Parley.  Mavis had begged him not to, and even though technically he hadn't promised her, still he felt wretched for going ahead with it anyway.  But what other shot did they have?  The world was ending.  He'd rather risk his neck to make sure it stayed around long enough for them to grow up, than try to save his skin for however long it took for the world to fall apart.

He hoped they'd understand that.  If not today, then one day.

"…and then this one li'l gerblin fella, the only one left standin'," said Branda, holding aloft her magical tankard, "takes out this tiny hatchet and looks like he's gonna make a run at us.  And Jess jus' _grins_ , and she pulls out her axe--which is bigger than he is!--and says, 'You call that an axe?  _This_ is an axe!'"  And she slices his head off, jus' like that!"  And she mimed slicing with an axe, to the laughter of the crowd. 

Mookie spotted Merle, and started waving one arm frantically.  "Hey dad!  Guess what?  Branda's friends with _Jess the Beheader!_   Isn't that so cool?"

"Oh yeah, we go way back," she said, grinning.  "Used to adventure together.  I can get ya front row seats, when we're done stopping the end times."  She aimed a finger-gun at Merle.

Despite how bone-tired he was, Merle managed a smile.  "Sounds like fun," he said.  "I'm sure she'll put on a good show, too, considering she owes us one for saving her wrestling group or whatever."

"Wait, you did?" asked Mookie, his already-wide eyes getting positively huge.

"Didn't I tell you and your sister that story?"  When Mookie shook his head, he said, "Well gather 'round, then, and I'll tell you how me an' Magnus an' Taako saved Chaos Stadium from an ancient god of violence."

Branda smiled.  "Go for it, ol' pal!"  She didn't seem the least put out to pass the proverbial mic.  Well, fine by him.  Sure he was exhausted, sure the world was ending, but the fire was warm and his kids were with him.  So he might as well enjoy the time he had with them, while he still could.

 

#

 

The crowd in front of the temple of Pelor had been gathering since mid-morning.  Angus knew, because he'd been watching it form.

A good detective needed patience.  One also needed really high perception, and ideally a good vantage point.  Luckily he had all three.  There was a tree just across from the temple, and thanks to the strange overgrowth affecting Goldcliff (among other places), it was thick with flowers and leaves.  And people so rarely thought to look _up._

He pressed his binoculars to his face, trying to get a better look at the makeup of the crowd.  Mostly they seemed to be distraught parishioners, although there were two figures who were acting more rowdy, shouting and holding up signs about the end times.  Pelor was one of the more popular gods worshipped by humans, but there were a few halflings and dwarves in the crowd too, along with a young, disaffected-looking elf who probably worshiped Pelor just to be rebellious.

A pair of paladins in yellow tabards flanked the closed temple doors.  The higher-up priests and clerics had been conferring inside for hours, no doubt debating how to proceed now that Pelor was gone.  And the crowd was getting restless.

According to Gerald Loggins, the cult he'd fallen in with had claimed that their god alone had survived the divine purge.  Maybe that was true, or maybe it was a lie made to bolster their membership.  He didn't know, but he needed to find out. 

But the Church of the Cleansing Fire was deep underground--metaphorically speaking--and he'd had yet to track down any more leads on them, besides a few whispered rumors.  They'd moved from their old location, and were probably very careful about who they let into their fold now.  But they were likely still attempting to boost their membership.

He considered the problem before him.  If he were going to send someone to blend into a crowd and try to recruit people who felt abandoned by Pelor, who would he send?  Someone who looked confident, and spoke soothingly.  Someone who could lure distraught people without having to rely on spellwork.

He heard a shuffle beneath him.  Officer Hurley was leaning against the tree, trying and failing to look casual.  Flowers bloomed all along her bare left arm, and her eyes were bright with fever. 

Roswell settled on the branch next to him.  "Any leads?" they asked in their high, piping voice.

"Not yet," he said, keeping his eyes on the crowd. 

"The crowd's getting pretty restless.  We might have to send in some officers, if it gets too rowdy."

Angus frowned.  That would probably spook any cultists away.  But if the crowd got out of hand, people could get hurt.  Ensuring public safety was a top priority.  "Understood," he said.  He set aside the binoculars and began to climb down the tree.

Hurley gave him a questioning look.  "Where are you going?"

"Our window of opportunity is closing," he said.  "I'm going in for a closer look."

"Angus, that might not be the best idea--"

"Who's Angus?" he asked.  He was now a halfling in a plain waistcoat and work trousers.  "I'm Banjo Kettlecorn. You know, the farmer?"

A good detective also needed Disguise Self.

As he drew close to the crowd, he began to hear more shouting.  Not from the doomsayers, but from a rough-looking human man, who also looked like he'd walked in from one of the outlying farms.  "When will you let us in?!" he was shouting at the paladins.  "We deserve answers!"

His words sparked restless energy in the crowd.  "Has Pelor abandoned us?" wailed a mother holding a tightly-swaddled baby to her chest.  "Why won't the high priests tell us anything?" roared a dwarven merchant. 

"And what about the red serpent in the sky?" shouted the first man.  "Is it here to destroy the world?"

And then the whole crowd was shouting at the stone-faced paladins, questions and demands and pleas.  Angus glanced over his shoulder, and caught sight of Hurley speaking into her Stone of Farspeech.

Glass shattered above him.  A thrown stone had punched a hole in the stained glass window above the doors.

Several things happened at once.

Like a dam breaking, the crowd's fragile restraint snapped.  They began to push and shove and scream, and Angus caught a fleeting glimpse of more bricks sailing into the air, smashing the temple windows.  The paladins began shouting, waving their morningstars threateningly, but they were two against a mob. 

And the mob was spreading.  The square was crowded with merchants and shoppers, and as the sound of shouts and breaking glass filled the air, people began to run--either toward the mob, bolstering its numbers, or away from the scene.  Someone struck the temple doors with a Magic Missile.

Angus stopped, halfway between Hurley and the mob, uncertain what to do next.  And in that moment, he saw the rough-dressed man slip free of the mob, and head quickly away. 

As if he'd done what he wanted to do, and was making a hasty exit.

He glanced up at Roswell, then slipped after the man, keeping his eyes on the dark gray tunic, the close-cropped brown hair.  He darted around a knot of shouting merchants, ducked beneath a stool thrown into a bakery window.  Ignored the shouts of Hurley behind him.  Roswell darted overhead, keeping a birds-eye view on their target.

Angus's fists clenched.  The cult hadn't sent someone to quietly recruit.  They'd sent someone to start a riot.


	13. Judgment of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozrith drops a bomb. Davenport learns some hard truths. Kravitz tries to help.

The moon was starting to tint an unnatural shade of red when Davenport, on one of his nightly walks, found himself in a small field.  He paused to observe the strange heavens.  He couldn't help but feel disoriented, as if he'd just landed on yet another new world under unfamiliar skies.  He sighed, shook his head, and moved on.

In the week since Ruin had showed up, he'd made little progress on anything.  The maps were still a mystery hanging over his head; so instead, he'd been trying to follow Ruin's path, hoping to get a better look at this thing.  Hoping to understand what it _was_.  But there was no way his boat could keep up.  Nothing could keep up.  He might receive news from Lucretia or Angus that it had shown up over this town or that village, but by the time he reached it, it was long gone.  And then he had to try to wring information out of panicked eyewitnesses. 

Even the Reapers couldn't keep up.  Without tracking spells, they'd had to rely on the same information that Davenport had.  Even with instant teleportation, by the time they heard of its current location, it was already gone.  And two days ago, they'd had to return to the Astral Plane in a hurry.  No doubt the same chaos that was affecting the Prime was starting to propagate there. 

He ran his fingers through his hair.  Gods, what he wouldn't give for the Starblaster again—

"This is my aloooone song!"  Ozrith's voice burst from a clump of bushes he'd been about to walk past.  "I sing it only when I'm aaaalll aloooone!  So if you're walking past me, no you're not, 'cause I'm all alone, and that's why, I'm singing this soooooong!"

Davenport hastily turned around and walked several feet away.  A soft chuckle escaped him.  Already he felt a little lighter.  "Hmm, the wind sounds very nice tonight," he said.  "I can really hear it whistling through the trees.  It sure would be nice if someone else were here to listen to it with me, but alas, I am a solitary soul in this empty field."

Another soft rustle sounded from the bushes.  "The wind is very proud of her voice.  She's been doing her practices.  Not that there's anyone around to hear her."

He sat down in the tall grass.  The overgrowth hadn't reached this particular field, but the grass was still high enough that when he sat down, it came up to his chin.  "The wind's singing has definitely improved, I think.  She's sustaining her notes for longer."

Ozrith was quiet for a moment.  She took a deep breath.  "Hey, if Captain Davenport were here, I'd like to ask him how the whole finding-the-gods thing is going.  Because things are getting real weird around…well, everywhere?"  Her voice trailed off to a whisper.  "And I'm starting to get a little scared." 

He shook his head.  "If Ozrith were here, I'd tell her we're still trying.  We're just…hitting a few dead ends."  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.  "And if I'm being perfectly honest?  I'm a little scared, too.  But, ah…I'm only saying this, of course, because there's nobody around to hear me."

Silence greeted him.  Considering his non-companion was in the bushes, he couldn't tell if it was a confused silence, or that sort of companionable silence that comes from being stuck together in the same terrible situation. 

The bush rattled.  "Aaugh!" she growled, her tone exasperated.  "I'm such a terrible kobold!  I can't even bring myself to kill one stupid gnome!  What is _wrong_ with me?!  Aargh!"

Davenport raised both eyebrows.  Instinctively he tensed, wondering if she was about to give up this pretense and finally attack him.

But the bush stopped rattling, and she gave a long, dramatic sigh.  "Mama was right," she moaned.  "I should never have promised this.  I was never gonna pull it off.  Everyone else is making sacrifices to Kurtulmak to bring Him back, and instead I'm—I'm taking _vocal lessons?_   Ugh, I'm the worst kobold in the world."

Despite the obvious despair in her voice, Davenport couldn't help but smile.  "If it makes Ozrith feel any better, I'd tell her that I'm pretty terrible at being a gnome," he said.  "But I _am_ good at being myself.  And if Ozrith were here, I'd tell her that she's pretty good at being Ozrith."

"Is this some gnome riddle?" she asked.  "…Which is what I'd ask Captain Davenport, if he were here.  Which he isn't.  It's just me, and this bush.  Having a bush talk.  You know?"

"Well, does Ozrith enjoy singing?"

"That's not the point.  We kobolds are supposed to be…trap builders and diggers and really sneaky assassins!  We're not supposed to be _singers_."

"But Ozrith is a singer, and a kobold.  So it must be possible after all.  None of us are defined by our race; our race is defined by us."

Ozrith was silent.

"Listen, if Ozrith were here, I'd tell her…I'd tell her that she doesn't have to go through with this.  When we're done saving the world, I could…I have connections.  I could train her some more, maybe get her an audition somewhere.  There's so much opportunity in this world!  She could go anywhere she wants.  I've got a ship; I can sail her there myself."

"You don't understand," she mumbled.  "I _promised_ Kurtulmak.  I can't just go back on a promise to Him!  He'd kill me, and then reincarnate me as a…as a meat beetle!"  She groaned.  "And then one of my siblings will be walking down a tunnel and they'll be all, 'Hey, here's a big juicy beetle!  Let's have it as a snack!  It's not like it's anyone we know!'  And then I'll be dead again—the short, tragic life of Ozrith part 2."

"That, uh…sounds pretty harsh.  I'm sure he wouldn't…"  But even as he said those words, he wasn't sure.  He'd grown up hearing stories about Kurtulmak, god of kobolds, and usually he was painted as petty and vindictive with his own followers, if not outright mad.  He wasn't sure what the Kurtulmak of Faerun was like, but judging by Ozrith's dismay, he was starting to think that her god wasn't exactly the model of mercy.

"I'm sorry," he said, not sure what else to say.  "I just…nobody has the right to hurt you for being, well… _you_.  Let alone the god that's supposed to look after you."

Ozrith huffed.  "Not like your god's any better," she mumbled.

He sat up straight.  "Garl would never hurt me," he said, unable to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.  The dueling stories of Kurtulmak's death scratched at the back of his brain.  "Sure he likes playing pranks sometimes, but he's not a…a murderer!"

Ozrith hissed.  He realized that he'd crossed a line.  He braced himself for an attack, ears straining to hear her movement.  But she hadn't moved from her spot.  She'd gone very, very still.

"What about Stonehollow?" she asked, her voice a low growl.

He blinked.  "What about it?"

The bush rattled.  "I--you-- _Stonehollow,"_ she sputtered.  "You know?!" 

"I'm, uh, not from this plane.  Is Stonehollow a place?"

Ozrith had gotten to her feet.  "Well, I'm not doing it," she growled.  "It's not my job to tell you about all the terrible things done by _your god!_   Go to any temple of Garl, any gnome warren, and ask about Stonehollow.  They'll tell you!  They'll tell you about the time Garl Glittergold slaughtered his own people because things weren't going his way!"

Davenport's spine went cold.

"That's what I'd tell Captain Davenport if he was here!" she snapped.  "But he's not!"

"Ozrith--"

"I said _you're not here!"_ she shouted as she stormed off into the trees.  "Door slamming noise!"

And then the field was silent, and he really was alone.

 

#

 

Magnus knew his captain could handle himself.  There was no way he'd sit in a field with his back turned to the kobold who'd been tracking them along the river, unless he trusted her completely.  Or he was perfectly confident that she couldn't actually hurt him if she tried.

Still, Magnus would be a shitty protector if he didn't keep an eye out for his family.

He couldn't hear what they were saying from this distance.  Things did get heated, and he found himself gripping the hilt of Railsplitter, ready to rush in and intervene.  But the kobold, instead of attacking, just ran off instead, leaving Davenport standing in the grass.   His captain looked pale and shocked beneath the reddening moon, like he'd just been punched in the gut.  But he wasn't injured, and the kobold was gone.  So Magnus relaxed.

Finally, Cap'nport shook his head and started back for the ship.  Magnus followed from a stealthy distance, but nothing lurked in the shadows to threaten either of them.  He wondered if the kobold was gone for good.

 

#

 

Davenport stared at the maps piled on his table, rubbing his eyes.  It was the middle of the night, but he couldn't sleep.  He tapped his fingers nervously on the table.

_There's a pattern to this_ , Garl had written.

The problem with patterns was that they depended on routine experiences and memories.  It was possible that the pattern referred to something only Garl would recognize.  And Davenport didn't know this Garl well enough to guess what that might be.

He hardly knew this Garl at all.

The realization struck him hard.  He stepped back from the table and sat down.

He'd been marked as an emissary of this version of his god the moment he crossed the planar rift into Faerun.  But between the Relic Wars and the Lost Decade, he hadn't exactly spent time studying this world's gnomish lore.  He still hasn't been to a temple of Garl here. 

He crossed the room to a little side table, where he kept a small stack of books of Garl lore he'd stumbled across on his travels along the coast.  He'd given them cursory perusals, but most of their contents were classic gnome jokes and tales of epic pranks.  He skimmed them again, searching for references to anything or anyone called Stonehollow.  But he found nothing.

He glanced at Arumdina, who hung silent on the wall.  He could ask her, and she would probably tell him.  But he thought of her anger, her perfect willingness to kill Ozrith if they ever met, and suddenly he couldn't bear to hear it from her.  He turned and walked back up to the deck.

He sat on a coil of rope, breathing hard.  He didn't know how long he sat there, staring blankly at the wide span of the river, trying to get his breathing under control.  It could have been minutes.  It felt like hours, days.

Marmalade butted his face against Davenport's leg, purring loudly.  He blinked.  He realized his hands were trembling.  He sat up straight, and lifted the tabby into his lap.  Marmalade's warm weight was a reassurance. 

"And what if she tells me that's the truth?" he asked, scratching him behind the ears.  "That my god is capable of--"  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

Gods.  He didn't survive a hundred years of the Hunger by running away from hard truths.  He pulled out his Stone of Farspeech, dialed a quick number.

"This is Kravitz," came the reaper's voice.  Despite not being technically alive, he sounded worn out. 

"Kravitz, it's Davenport.  Sorry to bother you, I'm sure you're probably pretty busy with whatever's going on in the Astral Plane, but…"  He licked his dry lips.  "Does the word Stonehollow mean anything to you?"

Silence answered him.

He rubbed a hand down his face.  "You know what, never mind.  It's a personal matter, and we've all got bigger things to worry about than--"

The air beside him was torn open.  Kravitz regarded him from the other side of the portal, his face unreadable.  "Come with me," he said. 

 

#

 

The Astral Sea churned uneasily beneath a deep blue sky.  Every so often, a plume of water arced into the air, filled with small soul-lights bursting free of their containment.  Dark-cloaked figures darted above the sea's surface, their silver scythes gleaming.  At least half a dozen reapers, doing what they could to calm the souls and keep them where they belonged.

"I don't suppose that's normal," said Davenport, tilting his head towards the window.  He was, he presumed, in the Raven Queen's citadel.  "Listen, I mean it.  I'm sure you've got a lot on your plate and I don't want to be a distraction here."

Kravitz shook his head.  "No, I can spare a few minutes for this.  Come along, the Archives are this way."

He followed along behind the Reaper, uneasiness settling in his gut. 

Kravitz frowned.  "I wasn't here when the war between the gnomes and kobolds started," he said.  "But I was here when it ended.  The Raven Queen usually takes very little interest in mortal wars, beyond the standard problems of extra paperwork and an uptick in death cults.  But Stonehollow was so drastic, She had to--"  He rubbed his eyes.  "Sorry, let me back up.  Stonehollow was the site of the last battle of the war.  I can't give you the details of the actual battle.  All I know is, Garl Glittergold decided to end it by smiting everyone on the field at once.  The gnome soldiers, the kobold soldiers, even a nearby kobold village that housed non-combatants.  Thousands dead in an instant of divine fury."

Davenport stopped.  His whole body flushed hot and cold and once.  He narrowed his eyes at Kravitz.  "Why would he--that d-doesn't make any sense," he said, his voice thin and faint.

"It's what happened," said Kravitz.  "He admitted to it.  And it broke so many rules of divine intervention in the affairs of mortals that he was dragged to the Court of the Gods."  He opened a door of black oak and tilted his head in silent invitation.  "I know this is very hard to hear," he said, his voice more gentle.  "But we have the court records, if you want to see."

Davenport stood stock-still, trying to catch his breath.  He gathered himself up, straightened his spine.  He needed to see this with his own eyes.  "Yeah," he said.  "I d-do."

Kravitz led him into a room filled with bookshelves.  The air smelled of dust and old paper.  The room stretched off into the darkness; Davenport couldn't see how far it extended, but judging by the echoes, it was a very long way indeed. 

A tall, thin man with a shock of white hair looked up from where his nose had been deep in a thick tome.  He glanced at Kravitz, and down at Davenport.  "Kravitz," he said, "you know this place is off-limits to mortals who do not serve the queen."

"Mr. Nim, this is Davenport, the emissary of Garl Glittergold," he said briskly.  "There are records here which concern his god."

The man's fuzzy white eyebrows lifted very slowly.  "Very well," he said dryly, addressing Davenport.  "Just don't get up to any pranks while you're here.  This is a place for serious minds."

"And yet, you let Lup in," Davenport replied, unable to help himself.  Nobody was going to out-dry him.

Mr. Nim raised an eyebrow even further.  "Indeed.  Speaking of which, Kravitz, how goes the new training regimen?  Have you learned any 'sick new beats,' as Lup insists on calling them?"

"You know what, we're in a hurry," said Kravitz, waving Davenport further into the dark.  Magical globes of silver light flicked on as they plunged deeper into the archives; Mr. Nim fell away behind them, blending seamlessly into the shadows and silence.

Davenport had no idea how this place was organized.  The titles on the books and scrolls, the labels on the shelves themselves, all were written in some thick, black script that made his eyes hurt to look at.  But Kravitz finally stopped, scanned a few shelves, and plucked a thin tome from the stacks.

He glanced at Davenport.  "Are you ready?"

He took a deep breath and nodded.  "As I'll ever be."

Kravitz opened the book.  The Archives disappeared, and they were standing in a great hall of silver and blue.  Dozens of figures stood in the hall, of all different races and in forms he'd never seen before.  Figures with rainbow scales and shining halos, figures with more arms than he could visually resolve, figures sporting a dozen different types of wings.  They stood on either side of a long aisle leading up to a great dais, upon which stood a platinum dragon so vast and bright that Davenport had to look away.

"That is Io," Kravitz whispered to him.  "The lord of all the Gods of Faerun."

"Pay attention, my Kravitz."  The Raven Queen stood on Kravitz's other side, calm and aloof, her eyes obscured by a lacy black mask framed with feathers.  "Even gods must obey the natural order of things." 

Davenport stepped back, but he did not bump into any of the figures around him, despite how close-packed they were.  An illusion, then.

Across the aisle from them stood a woman with long white hair, her knitting needles clacking as she worked on an iridescent scarf that trailed down the hall and out of sight.  Istus, he presumed.  He thought he even caught sight of Pan's horns poking up from somewhere in the crowd.

"I don't see why this is necessary," said Garl suddenly.  And there was Davenport's patron, standing in the aisle right in front of him.  His wrists were bound in manacles.  His emerald-like eyes regarded the dragon coolly.  "I've already pled guilty.  And I'm ready to accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

"Your guilt is not in question," said the dragon, with a voice that could split the world in half.  "But there yet remain many questions.  Garl Glittergold, you have always delighted in bending the rules as you see fit.  But this action is beyond the pale, even for you.  We wish to know:  _why?_ "

The whole room was silent.  All the gods watched him, awaiting his answer.         

Garl shrugged.  "I wanted the war to end," he said simply. 

The clicking of Istus's needles stopped.  She looked up.  "Garl," she said, "is there anything else you want to say, that could provide some context or insight?  Something that might mitigate the severity of this crime--"

"I have already said everything I wish to say."  His voice was cold.

Istus looked for a long time at her scarf.  But she gave no indication of what she saw there.  She continued to knit.

"So be it," said Io.  "Garl Glittergold, you have overextended your reach far beyond what is appropriate for the gods.  As punishment, you will no longer be allowed to interfere directly with the Prime Material Plane.  No divine interventions, no direct communication with mortals.  Your clerics may continue to draw on your power passively, but you may not send avatars or designate emissaries.  Do you have any current emissaries?"

He frowned.  The curl of his copper mustache twitched.  "No," he said. 

"Very well.  This punishment shall continue for a full generation of your people, until all gnomes currently alive have passed from mortal life.  And, this should go without saying, you may take no action to speed this process along."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Garl.

"That's it?!" snarled a reptilian voice.  A large, grey-scaled kobold shoved his way through the crowd to point an accusatory claw at Garl.  "He blasts an entire battlefield just because his weak, pathetic fighters are losing, and he gets _house arrest?_   He can't just go around smiting my people!"

"Of course, you were doing that quite well on your own," said the Raven Queen.  Her voice was quiet, but everyone in the room heard it.

Kurtulmak--for who else could this be--glared at her with yellow eyes and bared teeth.  "That's my business!" he snapped.  " _He_ shouldn't be allowed to touch my stuff--"

_"Silence!"_ boomed Io.  "We have made our decision, which shall not be questioned or appealed.  This hearing is adjurned."

And then Davenport was standing in the Archives.  The silence was deafening.  The memory of Garl's curt answers and Kurtulmak's accusations rang in his head like the fading echo of funeral bells.

Kravitz slid the book back into place.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I'm sure that was hard for you to see.  But I hope that offers you some insight."

He shook his head.  A thousand words were clamoring in his throat, but he couldn't speak any of them.

Kravitz sighed.  "There comes a day in the life of every emissary, when we realize that the gods aren't like us.  Not really.  They don't think like us, they don't make the same kinds of decisions.  They're just…"  He shrugged.  "They are forces of creation, existing to maintain balance--"

"It doesn't make sense," he said.

"I'm sure it seems that way, but the gods are capable of decisions that are completely beyond our understanding--"

"No, I mean it _doesn't make sense_."  He ran his fingers through his hair.  "It's completely out of character for him!  Garl Glittergold is the god of everything that defines the best of gnomes.  The…the inventiveness, the cleverness, the joy, the community--fighting only defensively, only when provoked.  As Taako would put it, he's peak gnome."  He looked sharply up at Kravitz.  "I've met battle-hardened War Garls on other planes, and even they'd never do this.  Unless gnome culture on Faerun is wildly different than I've seen so far, razing a battlefield and massacring non-combatants isn't something that most gnomes would think acceptable.  It's not something we'd ask of our god.  So _why would he do it?"_

But Kravitz only shook his head.  There was a deep sadness in his eyes.  "When people are faced with the prospect of endless war--when whole generations can be born, live, and die knowing only blood and battlefields--it _changes_ people.  It can lead them to ask for terrible things, in the name of victory.  You, of all people, should know that."

Davenport swallowed around a hard knot in his throat.

Kravitz's gaze was steady, fixed on something immeasurably far away.  "I've seen it, too," he said.  "Good people turned desperate in the face of too much death.  Willing to consider the most terrible solutions, in order to keep themselves and their families safe."

Davenport chewed on the idea of Garl as someone who would massacre a whole battlefield, in some desperate attempt to end a war with a show of sheer brutal force.  But it was a hard, sour nugget to chew on, let alone swallow.  He kept wondering if this was some sort of trick or deception, or if he'd been framed somehow.  But Garl confessed to it all in the Court of the Gods. 

Maybe he couldn't accept it because he didn't _want_ to accept it.

"Listen," said Kravitz, "if you want to talk about it, I can put on a pot of tea."  His tone was that of someone who'd been through this before. 

He shook his head.  "No," he said.  "Just send me home.  I need to think."

Kravitz nodded.  They left the Archives in silence--Mr. Nim only acknowledged their departure with a curt nod--and Kravitz sliced open a portal as soon as they were back in the hallway.

"I know things are pretty hectic right now," said Kravitz, "but if you do need a listening ear…I'm here."

"I know," said Davenport.  "Thanks for…for showing me this."

The Reaper nodded.  The portal closed in silence; Davenport was standing alone on his deck, beneath a sky that was slowly falling apart.


	14. Crisis of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz remembers. Angus joins a cult. Merle steps on a metaphorical landmine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for referenced past child abuse & death.

"That child didn't deserve it," said Kravitz.

The Raven Queen looked down at him.  Behind her mask, her expression was unreadable.  "Death has nothing to do with what mortals deserve or do not deserve," she said. 

"He didn't have a choice, what his parents did to him," he said, teeth gritted.  "He never asked to be…used in their ritual."  Even now, hours after the fact, he was shaking.  He couldn't get the image out of his head.  The sight of that boy--barely five years old, if that--staring back at him with ancient, angry eyes.  The eyes of a demon who'd used his body as a vessel.  It had pronounced Kravitz's doom in the boy's child voice, and if Kravitz had still had a stomach, he might have been sick.

"Nevertheless," said the Raven Queen. 

"There had to be some way to save him."  He realized he was clenching his fists.  He forced his fingers to loosen.  He realized he shouldn't be questioning his goddess in the first place.  But there was a pain in his heart, and he had to speak.

"His time was over," she said.  "He was dead the moment the demon consumed him.  To bring him back would violate the natural order.  You know this."

Over the roaring in his ears, her voice sounded so far away.  He looked up at her.  She had never seemed so tall, so imposing, so unfathomably alien.  He looked down at his feet again.  "Of course, my queen," he said.  Not because he thought this was right, but because he wanted to end this conversation, to get out of her presence as soon as possible.  He needed to think.

"You are dismissed," she said.

He turned and left the throne room in a hurry, thoughts whirling.  Never, since his death, did his construct body feel so cold.

 

#

 

Centuries later, Kravitz sat alone in his office, hand pressed to forehead.  It had been only a few minutes since he'd sent Davenport back to the Prime; he really should be getting back to helping the other Reapers contain the restless souls in the Astral Sea.  But he just needed a few minutes in silence, to wait for the flood of old and long-buried emotions to calm.

The world was beginning to crack at the seams.  He recognized that.  But when Davenport had asked about Stonehollow, in a voice that suggested he was fighting hard to stay calm, how could Kravitz not help?  He'd been through the same thing, long ago.  That moment when he realized that the Raven Queen wasn't just a very powerful elf with an important job, but a being magnitudes beyond him, whose thoughts and ways would always be, on some level, inscrutible.

When he'd been there, left shaking and cold by this realization, it had been Mr. Nim who had found him and talked him through it.  Mr. Nim, who had been in the Queen's service only a few mortal years longer than Kravitz himself.  But unlike Kravitz, Mr. Nim had worshipped the Raven Queen in life; he had had much longer to ruminate on her nature.

A knock sounded at the door.  "Hey, Skeletor, you okay?" asked Lup.

He rubbed a hand down his face.  "Yeah," he said.  "Just needed to take care of something personal."

She tilted her head.  "All right.  Look, I know you don't need sleep, but if you do need to tap out and rest, just say so.  Barry and I can get the sea calmed down, no problem--"

Outside, a plume of glowing water shot up from the sea's surface, followed by the angry cry of a few dozen agitated souls.  And then, incongruously, came the sound of a few chords played on a keyboard.

Kravitz stood, raising an eyebrow.  "First of all, thank you for your concern, but I'm fine.  And second of all…is Barry playing that damned keyscythe?  _Now,_ of all times?"

Lup shrugged.  "Hey, music soothes the savage beast.  And by 'beast' I mean the cranky soul-waters."

He looked out the window.  He spotted Barry easily enough--he was the only Reaper near the sea's surface who had a keyboard duct-taped to his scythe--and was surprised to find the water's surface smoothing in a circle around him.  Barry's fingers improvised an easy arpeggio up and down the keys.  The agitated soul-lights slowed, drifting towards him as if drawn by the music.

Well.  He had to admit, it wasn't the first time he'd seen music calm the restless dead.

He flew out the window, black feather cape fluttering behind him, and looked out over the churning sea.  It was a hell of a time, he realized, for anyone to be having a crisis of faith.  As strange and alien as they were, this world needed the gods to hold it together.  He and his friends could try to patch it together, but they could only last so long on their own. 

Still, they had to try.  _He_ had to try.  It was the least he could do for the goddess who had saved him.

 

#

 

"War is a vast machine," said High Empyreal Wick, spreading his hands wide.

Goldcliff was on fire.

"There are those who pull the levers, those who are gears, and those who are crushed in its works."

Militia were fanning out in the streets, trying to contain the riots that had spread like a plague.

"Even now, this city makes war with itself.  Goldcliff is lost, it is confused.  Those at the levers of this machine know not what they do, care not who they crush.  We are a monster devouring ourselves."  He looked back and forth over the crowd.  "And in our confusion, we are missing the greater threat.  Even now, we have enemies outside this city who are ready to take advantage of our weakness.  _We must not be weak."_

The huddled congregation stirred, a tremor passing through it.  High Empyreal Wick looked out over the crowd, as if he were trying to meet everyone's eyes at once.  Briefly, his gaze landed on Banjo Kettlecorn, halfling farmer, and Angus's heart pounded in his chest.  But he kept his face carefully attentive, and Wick's gaze moved on.

"The Fire of Heaven reminds us we can be strong--but more importantly, we must be _clever._   To do nothing is to be crushed in the machine of war.  To rush into the battlefield is to become a gear in the machine.  We must strive, instead, to pull the levers.  To turn the cannons away from our families and towards our enemies."

Angus pondered his words.  It hadn't been hard to follow his quarry to the current den of the Church of the Cleansing Fire.  He'd hidden himself outside and watched people, in ones and twos, slip up to the nondescript door and be admitted inside, claiming they were "sent by a whisper" or "following the scent of smoke."  He'd done the same, doing his best to look distraught and desperate. 

He'd also tweaked his disguise, when he'd noticed that most of the people showing up were not peasants.  They were merchants and landlords, and even an older couple whose dark, silk-lined cloaks could not disguise their obvious wealth.  Now he could pass for a wealthy farmer, the sort who owned hundreds of acres and had a moderately successful agribusiness.

The people inside had welcomed him.  There had been coffee and tea, cookies and bread, chairs to rest on.  He'd noted a particularly high-strung gnome called Brother Gear darting here and there, trying to officiate an endless array of tasks; he'd also noted at least half a dozen armed fighters at the periphery.  Ostensibly they were there to protect the small church from outsiders who would destroy them, but he had a feeling they were also there to keep folks in line.

The mercenary leader, a tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, stood in one corner not far from Wick, surveying the crowd.  He had a sharp nose and an angular, chiseled face with just the hint of stubble on his chin.  He matched the description of Brother Fury, the one who'd pursued Loggins.

"My sisters and brothers," Wick continued, "you may feel abandoned by your gods.  I do not blame you for your fear.  But know that you are not alone here.  Know that the last and greatest of Faerun's gods yet remains, and will remain.  He does not forsake you.  Instead, he commands you to live!  To not be crushed by the gears of war but to rise up and seize the levers!  To defend yourselves from those who would destroy you, and to turn the fires of war against your enemies!"

Angus kept his face neutral.  But his thoughts were buzzing.  Who did Wick think was the enemy here?  Was their god a god of war?  For all his speeches, Wick had said very little about who or what their god actually was.  There wasn't even a name, only titles:  the Fire of Heaven, the Benevolent Whisper, He Who Speaks Above the Battlefield.

Angus needed to get closer.

He waited until the service ended, when the congregation mingled and chatted over coffee.  There was an undercurrent of tension in the room; he heard several people talking about the riots.  One of the cult higher-ups, an elegant-looking elvish woman called Sister Herald, moved among the crowd, talking in a soothing voice.  Her hair was silvery-white, and fell down the back of her dark robe like a waterfall.  Her gaze passed quickly over Angus, as if completely disinterested in a halfling farmer, and turned to a distraught-looking older woman who was dressed in the clothes of a wealthy merchant.

He slipped through the crowd towards the unoccupied dais.  Wick was off to the side of the room, chatting with a small knot of cultists, and most of the mercs were watching the crowd or the entrance.  There was a curtain next to the dais, which led to Wick's meditation chamber.  Making one last check to ensure nobody was watching him, he slipped past the curtain, down a narrow hallway, past a second curtain and into the room beyond.

The air in the meditation chamber was thick with the scent of incense.  A soft, ornate rug filled most of the floor, with a pillow for kneeling in front of the sole piece of furniture:  a finely-carved cabinet painted such a deep black that it seemed to absorb light.  On top of the cabinet was an ornate, polished sword and a bowl of gold coins that glimmered in the flickering lantern light.

On the wall behind the cabinet was a banner, blood red and trimmed with gold thread.  In the center of the banner was a single seven-pointed star.

He took a few cautious steps into the room.  The rising incense fluttered, stirred by a cold draft.  Angus's neck prickled.  He glanced around the room, confirming that it was empty.  And yet he couldn't shake the feeling of being _seen._   He took a deep breath to steady himself.  He was right in the thick of this cult, he just needed to get as much information as possible.  He needed to find out the big picture, to discover their real goals.

He crossed the room to the cabinet.  The sword gleamed, drawing his gaze.  It was set on a small golden display stand, and its edge was so sharp it seemed to cut the air that passed over it.  He'd never seen such fine craftsmanship.

The feeling of being _seen_ shifted.  Less hostile and more…welcoming?  The weight of anxiety seemed to lift from him.

He didn't hear anyone speak.  But a sense of permission tickled the back of his brain.  _You may touch the sword,_ it seemed to say, not in words but in the press of emotion against his shoulders.  _Feel the weight of it in your hands, learn what it is and what it can do for you.  But first, you must pay._

He found himself reaching for his pocket, to fish out a gold coin to add to the bowl.

And then he stopped himself, shaking his head.  "No thank you," he said.

Oh heck.  Did he say that out loud?  He glanced over his shoulder, straining to hear any approaching footsteps.  But all he heard was the distant, unruffled chatter of the congregation.

He let out a breath he'd been holding.  He wasn't sure if this cult was worshipping a god, but there was _something_ happening here, and it wasn't good.  An enchantment that messed with people's emotions?  Some sort of localized Charm effect?  He pulled out his wand to cast Detect Magic.

Before he could cast the spell, however, the room disappeared.  And he was standing in the Starblaster common room.

"All right," said Merle, over the noise of the crowded room.  "That's everyone here for this meeting."

"…Shit nuggets," said Angus, with feeling.

 

#

 

Merle looked out over the Parley space.  There was the IPRE crew, Kravitz, and Angus, who looked very startled.  Well, the kid had never bothered to give Merle his Stone frequency, so he could just deal.

"Whoa, language!" Lup declared, doing a fair imitation of looking scandalized.  "Taako, what are you teaching this kid?"

"Hey, that's not on me," said Taako, flicking a hand lazily.  "He came with a potty mouth."

"Can we get down to business?" said Dav, slipping back into his Captain Voice.  "We have a lot to discuss--"

"Yeah, I'm gonna need a lot of buffs," said Angus, narrowing his eyes at Merle.  "Because I'm in a very dangerous location and my cover's just been blown."

"Whoa!  Where are you, Ango?"  Magnus sat up, hand reaching for Railsplitter as if he could somehow fight off whatever was threatening him.

"Right now, I'm in the back room of a cult that claims to be worshipping the last god of Faerun," he said.  "I don't know if that's true or not, but they just started a riot in Goldcliff, and there's some really sketchy magical stuff going on.  And I was trying to get to the bottom of it."

"That does not sound good," said Kravitz.

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?"  Merle threw his hands in the air.  "Kids shouldn't even be sticking their noses in weird cults!"

"I'm not just a kid--"

"Everyone be quiet!" Dav snapped.  "Merle, throw every useful buff you can at Angus.  We'll make it a short meeting.  Angus, do you need backup?  Be honest."

Angus paused for far longer than Merle liked, before saying, "I'll be fine.  But…if one of you could call Officer Hurley, that--that would be good.  She knows where I am.  I let her know before I went in."

Dav nodded.  "Will do."

Merle grumbled and began burning his spell slots on Angus, casting Bless and Cat's Grace and Foresight, for good measure (did he even have Foresight?  He was pretty sure he did…).  Behind him, Davenport was calling the meeting to order and asking anyone if they'd been able to figure anything out about that giant wyrm thing.

"Avi's been tracking it," said Lucretia.  "At least, as best as we can.  Ruin is moving faster than we can keep up, and if it gets far enough away, it can dip below the horizon and out of sight, even at our considerable height."

"Send me what tracking data you have so far," said Dav.  "I'll see if we can get anything out of it.  Merle, Taako?"

"Tried every tracking spell I could, my man," said Taako.  "No luck.  It's not even registering as an arcane presence in the atmosphere."

"Yeah, unfortunately I've got nothin'," said Merle, throwing himself into a spare armchair.  "I've just been running around trying to keep all of nature from falling apart."  He couldn't keep the sarcasm from his voice, but dammit, he was tired and cranky and feeling more useless every day.

"Barry, Lup?"

"We've been helping Krav contain things over in the Astral Plane," said Lup, "so not much time for research.  But its behavior seems to be in keeping with Barry's hypothesis.  Ruin seems completely disinterested in anything that isn't a god."

"It's true," said Lucretia.  "It hasn't stopped or even slowed since it took Cyrrollalee.  I watched a flock of pegasi fly right into it, and it didn't react."  She frowned.  "A few of them even attacked, but Ruin just ignored them."

Angus pushed his glasses up his nose.  "Which means that whatever this Church of the Cleansing Fire is worshipping, it either isn't actually a god, and therefore Ruin isn't interested; or…"  He looked around the room.  "The two are connected, somehow."

"Wait," said Barry, sitting up.  "D'you think this thing they're worshipping _is_ Ruin?"

Angus frowned.  "I suppose it's a possibility.  I'd need to find out more, though, to be sure."

Dav arched an eyebrow.  "Are you suggesting that Ruin is a god?"

Merle grunted.  "That's the thing," he said.  "I don't think it is.  I tried Parley, after I got a gander at it.  But nothing.  I couldn't pull it in.  I don't think it's, uh, a whatchacallit.  Sentient being.  I think it just…exists."

"Like a construct," Taako mused.

Dav fixed Merle with a firm look.  "You tried Parley on that thing?"

"Well, of course!" he said.  "What else would I do?"

But Dav shook his head.  "No Parley, Merle," he said.  "Not with whoever or whatever our enemy is.  You don't get any more resets.  It's too risky."

"What?"  Merle sat up in his armchair.  What the hell else was he supposed to do?  Parley was the one ace up his sleeve, the one thing he could do that no one else could.  He was the _Peacemaker_ , damn it.  "It helped us with John!  Besides, everyone else is putting their lives on the line!  Why should I sit back and--"

"I said _no Parley_ ," said Dav through gritted teeth.  "That's an order."

"You can't order me to do squat!" 

The words were out before Merle could stop them.  And by the way Davenport's face grew red and his spine grew stiff, he knew they'd struck deep.  Pan damn it. 

"I--"  Dav's mouth opened and closed, his hands balling into fists.  "I'm n-not your captain, Merle, b-but--but I'm your d-da--I'm your--"  He winced.  " _Damn it!"_   He spun away from Merle and kicked a footstool, hard.  It hit the wall with a crack as loud as thunder in a room that had gone deathly quiet.  He stormed to the back of the room, to the door that should have led to the main corridor and the safety of his berth, if this had been the real Starblaster.  But this wasn't the Starblaster, and the door opened on a blank wall.  Dav stared at it, unable to retreat as he normally would when his temper got the better of him.  He was stuck in Parley, and all he could do was stand awkwardly in place, filled with a fury that had nowhere to go.

"Uh, maybe we should take a break and, uh, reconvene in a little while," said Barry, looking around in the hopes that anyone might back him up.

Taako cleared his throat.  He had partially removed a small handkerchief from his pocket, and was pointedly looking at Merle.

It wasn't the handkerchief.  It was Istus's sampler.

He ran a hand down his face, tugged at his beard.  "Listen, Dav, I'm sorry," he said.  "I didn't mean that.  I just been kinda, ya know…tired and shit.  And I know we've faced the end of the world before, but I mean, it never gets any easier.  It's hard not to feel a little helpless."

Dav took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  "Helpless?"  His throat was raw, his voice tight.  "Merle, you're arguably one of the more helpful people on the team right now!"  He turned on his heel, his movements stiff and self-controlled, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made Merle take a step back.  "You're literally holding back floods and keeping forests from strangling everyone.  Sure, I get it.  It's tiring and it probably doesn't feel like enough, but—gods, Merle!  You're doing plenty!"  He frowned, running his fingers through his orange hair.  "You're a damn sight more useful than I am, right now."

"Hey, I don't think that's true, Dav--"

"Really?"  He arched an eyebrow.  "I'm a captain with no authority, a starship pilot with no starship, and an emissary who can't figure out his own god's weird puzzle message!"  His voice rose and cracked.  "A god who, in this planar system, is apparently a war criminal!"

"What?"  Merle stared at him.  "The hell are you talking about?"

Davenport squeezed his eyes shut and took another deep breath, dropping his voice back into a forced calm.  "So I'm not your captain, Merle.  But as your _friend_ , I strongly advise against using Parley.  Is that acceptable to you?"

Merle's throat was dry.  Once again, he felt like he'd accidentally stepped on a landmine.  One that had knocked him flat on his ass, and was still quietly exploding under Davenport's skin.  "All right," he said, because he suspected that was what Davenport needed to hear right now.  "No Parleying our enemies."

But even as the words left his mouth, he had a mighty suspicion he wasn't gonna hold to them.


	15. The Path Made Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angus borrows a sword. Hurley has some doubts. Magnus hugs a furry new friend.

Angus popped out of Parley to see Brother Fury looking down at him, the point of his sword aimed at Angus's throat.  Behind Fury stood High Empyreal Wick, a frown marking his jowly face. 

"Who sent you?" Fury growled.  "And don't think I'm unwilling to kill a child."

Angus realized that his Disguise Self had come undone.  Well, that sucked.  He dropped and rolled to the side.

Merle's Foresight buff activated, and Angus saw a phantom Fury lunge forward in his mind's eye a split second before it happened. With Cat's Grace he danced out of range, and Fury's blade went whiffing past.  Angus had his wand out before the man could react.

"First of all, I'm not a child," he said.  "And don't think I'm unwilling to kick a grown-up's ass."  As he spoke, he waved his wand in a quick, precise sweeping motion, sending a Prismatic Spray in their direction.  Wick cried out in surprise, but Fury managed to dodge out of the way, charging at Angus from the side with surprising speed.  Angus decided to drop the non-damage spells and cast a series of magic missiles.  One of them skimmed Fury's shoulder but the others missed, and he didn't slow down.  Angus dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding being gutted by the man's sword.  He knocked up against the black cabinet.  The sword rattled on its stand.

Wick shouted a word in Infernal.  Angus's wand burst with a flare of heat.

Fury had spun to face him.  He smiled.  "Nowhere to run, boy," he said. 

A pressure on his shoulders.  A whisper in the back of his head.  A sense of permission.

He dropped a gold coin into the bowl on the cabinet, and drew the sword.

He had no training in sword fighting.  But the moment his fingers closed on the hilt, it felt like puzzle pieces clicking together.  Like he was always meant to hold this sword.  He swung.

Fury's sword clattered to the floor.  Or, most of it did.  About two inches of blade still remained attached to the hilt.  The rest of it was a long shard of steel laying inert on the floor.

Angus had cut the man's sword in half.        

Fury stared at the now-useless hilt.

Angus's heart felt like it was pounding in his throat.  His hand on the blade was eerily still, even as the rest of him trembled with adrenaline.  "I'll be going now, sir, unless you have anything else to contribute?" 

Fury drew a long dagger.  Angus cut that in half, too.

Searing pain drove into his shoulder.  Angus staggered forward, a cry rising in his throat.

"Step aside, Brother Fury," said Wick, his hands crackling with fire.  "I'll handle this."  A fireball began to grow between his fingers, shot through with black lightning.  Wick spoke another word, and the fireball roared forward.

Angus cut it in half.  He didn't know how.  But two fireballs roared past him on either side and slammed into the back wall of the chamber, and he stood perfectly untouched.

Wick lifted both eyebrows.  He didn't look angry, just confused.  He stepped back, regarding Angus with his pale, watery eyes.

"Brother Wick!" came a high, strained voice.  "I heard a commotion—"  Brother Gear ran into the meditation chamber and stopped in his tracks, taking in the tableau.

Wick spoke another Infernal word.   Angus's stomach twisted, as if his whole insides had turned upside-down.  He collapsed to his knees.  There was no flung spell to slice in mid-air.  There was just pain.

He felt Fury's grip tighten on his shoulders.  He heard voices, but he couldn't process the words through the haze of pain.

He struck blindly with the sword.  He thought, in a distant sort of way, that he caught a glancing blow on someone.  But he didn't stop to find out who.  He just forced himself to his feet and ran.

He reached the curtain, and was yanked backwards as the sword was ripped from his hand.  It flew across the room and returned to its golden stand, as if pulled by an invisible hand.  He could swear he heard an affectionate _tsk, tsk_ in the back of his head.

Disarmed and dizzy with pain, Angus ran.  He didn't stop, he didn't look back, he just pushed himself through the milling, confused congregation, up the stairs, through the door and into the sunlight.

 

#

 

Hurley shoved the mug of hot chocolate into Angus's shaking hands.  He sat with knees drawn up to his chest, and a rescue blanket wrapped over his shoulders.  For all his intelligence and experience, he was still a sensitive boy.  And whatever had happened down in the Church of the Cleansing Fire had left him badly shaken.

Unfortunately, the place had been perfectly empty by the time she got her officers down the stairs.  Nobody besides Angus had left the building, and yet the basement had been cleared out.  As if the entire congregation had been picked up and moved somewhere else, by some powerful magic.

How in the name of Pan were they evading her so well?  She paced back and forth in her office, then sat down hard in her chair, as if her feverish energy had finally reached its limit.  She breathed hard, trying to get air in her system even though she technically didn't have lungs anymore.

"There's something down there," said Angus, looking up from his mug.  His voice only shook a little. 

She raised an eyebrow.  "Something like what exactly?"

Angus opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.  "New gear shipment's in," said Officer Little, poking his head in. 

"New gear?"  She gave him a puzzled look. 

But he didn't offer any explanation.  He just shrugged and said, "Orders from the top," before ducking out again.

She followed him out to the equipment room, which was already crowded with militia who weren't out on patrol trying to quell the riots.  Angus tagged along, still wrapped in his blanket.  She didn't try to stop him.  Honestly, she was worried about leaving him alone right now.

Opened crates lined the equipment room.  A few officers were managing the loadout, handing off new swords and breastplates and riot shields to the militia and while the Requisitions Officer marking down who had gotten what.  Hurley frowned.  While better protective gear was good to have during a riot, the gear they already had was still in excellent shape.  Why were they spending money buying new equipment, especially now when the city's resources were being stretched so thin?

She reached into a crate and picked up a short sword.  Wherever they'd sourced these from, she could tell right away that these weapons weren't cheap.  The design wasn't fancy, but the steel was high quality and the balance was perfect.  She ran one wooden fingertip along the edge of it, and hissed at a faint burn of magic.

She stared at the blade in shock.  These were overlaid with a basic enchantment to increase damage.  These were plus-two bladed weapons, maybe even plus-three.  What was going on?

She turned to Captain Valen, who was inspecting a stack of breastplates.  "We can't use these," she said.

Valen raised an eyebrow.  "They are our new standard equipment," he said, matter-of-factly.  "I understand they may not be suited to your class, but—"

"These weapons are made to do high damage," she said.  "We're supposed to stop people from getting hurt, not hurt them _more."_

Valen frowned.  "Superior equipment is a vital component of superior performance," he said.  "Mayor Coronus is merely making sure that we are able to do our jobs well, and keep Goldcliff safe."

"This isn't an invading army, captain!" she said.  "These are our own citizens, and they're panicked and afraid.  You're trying to douse a fire with oil—"

"Officer Hurley, you are being insubordinate."  His eyes narrowed.  "I will be sure to note that on your record.  You may refuse to use weapons as is appropriate for your training, but you do not have the authority to make this call for the rest of the Militia.  Is that understood?"

Hurley regarded the captain.  "Understood," she said.  Turning to the Requisitions Officer, she held up the sword.  "I'm signing this one out."

Captain Valen raised one perfect eyebrow, but said nothing.

Hurley returned to her office.  The sword, for all its lightness, felt like a heavy and poisonous weight in her hands.  She set it down on her desk.

"There's something fishy going on here," she said.  "I'm going to see if I can find out who ordered these, and from where."

Angus nodded.  She could already see the wheels turning behind his eyes.  "Good idea," he said.  He picked up the sword and turned it over carefully in his hands, examining the hilt, weighing it.  He frowned, his lips pursing.  "There was a sword down there," he said, his voice quiet and a little shaky.

"Down there?  You mean, in the cultists' hideout?"

"Yeah," he said.  "And it was bad.  Really bad.  I think—I think it's even more powerful than Magnus's sword."

Hurley stared at Angus.  She'd seen Magnus's Flaming Raging Poisoning Sword of Doom in action, and it wasn't pretty.

Angus set the sword down, and shook his hands out.  "And I—I think it's the key to everything.  Call it a hunch, but my detective's intuition is telling me that we need to find a way to defeat it."

"Defeat the sword itself?"

Angus nodded.  "If we break that sword, we might be able to stop all this.  Ruin, the Church—I think it's all connected!"   He looked out the window, where they could both see the overgrowing cherry tree that was Hurley and Sloane's home.  "If we break that sword, I think…I think we can save the world." 

 

#

 

Magnus set down the Stone of Farspeech.  "Okay," he said, "Hurley's not far from Angus's location.  She'll get him out."

Cap'nport rubbed one hand down his face.  "All right," he said.  "All right."  He stared at the pile of maps spread on the table.  His fists were clenched.

Magnus regarded his captain, and he felt his heart cracking open, as it always did when his family was distressed.  "Hey," he said, in his best soothing voice.  He got down on one knee and held out his arms in a silent hug offering.  "You okay?"

Davenport didn't move.  "I'll be fine when I figure this out," he said, his voice low and rough.

Magnus dropped his arms.  "So, look…" he tried.  "You know, you'll always be my captain, okay?  And you'll figure out those maps.  You're like, one of the smartest people I know!"

Davenport sighed.  "Thanks, Magnus.  I…appreciate that, I do.  I'm just a little frustrated, that's all." 

"Hey.  You know, I get that.  But there's nothing we can't all figure out if we work together.  I mean, we've saved the world how many times already?"

He didn't even get a chuckle, or a weak smile.

"Soooo," said Arumdina, from where she was hung on the wall.  "Judging by the sour mood in here, I'm assuming that the family meeting didn't go well?"

"Let's just focus on the maps," said Davenport.  "Arumdina, is there anything you haven't mentioned that might help me figure out this so-called pattern?"

"Nothing I haven't already told you, unfortunately.  If there's a pattern in there, I'm not seeing it."

He scowled at the maps.  Magnus was tempted to go in for another hug, but he figured now wasn't the time.  Instead, he went to the counter and put on the kettle for some tea.  He wasn't a tea drinker himself, but it was a good way to get Davenport to relax when he was getting all tangled up inside.

He hadn't spent a hundred years with his family without learning how to get them all to relax once in a while.

"You know," said Arumdina, "I'm just saying, the die is made for breaking stalemates…"

"No, Arumdina, we've already discussed this."

"What die?" Magnus asked.

"Oh, he's got a divine golden die from Garl that helps him out when he's stuck," said Arumdina lightly.  "But he's refusing to _use it_ because he's being _stubborn_ and bull-headed."

"The die is unpredictable," said Davenport, glaring up at her.  "If I roll low, something bad might happen and I don't want to end up…"  He frowned.  "…cursed or something because Garl isn't around to direct or undo the effects."

"Rude!" said Arumdina.  "The die can't hurt you.  It just…helps you out in a sideways way."

Davenport gave the axe a long, level look.  He reached in a small belt pouch and pulled out a golden die with twenty sides.  "If this goes badly…" he said, letting the words hang in the air.  He tossed the die onto the table.

It clattered to a stop on a 13. 

A magic summoning circle flared to life on the floor, and out stepped the strangest dog Magnus had ever seen.

No--no wait, it was a badger.  Or, badger- _ish._ With golden fur and eight legs, each one tipped with sharp, dark claws. 

"What the hell is that?" Davenport squeaked.  The creature was at least five feet long, and its stocky body appeared to be all muscle. 

"A new friend!" said Magnus, extending a hand.  "Hey there, little buddy!"

It snarled, turning its head this way and that.  It sniffed loudly, stepping away from Magnus and snuffling around the room.  Then it saw Arumdina.  It made a beeline towards her, yelping in excitement.

"Uh, you two might wanna--yeah, get that thing away from me!" she cried, voice rising in pitch.  The creature dug its claws into the wall in an effort to climb up to her.  "It's an aurumvorax--a gold-eater!  Get it off, get it off!"

Magnus threw himself between the creature and his axe buddy, grabbing Arumdina off the wall.  Unfortunately, she vanished as soon as his fingers closed on her shaft.  Behind him, he could hear Cap'nport's surprised cry as she suddenly dropped into his hands.

The aurumvorax turned on its four hind legs, its gaze swinging towards Davenport.  He looked down at Arumdina in his hands and threw her straight up into the ceiling, out of the creature's reach.  Her blade dug into the wooden slats and stuck.  He stepped back and drew a pair of throwing knives.

"Don't hurt it!" said Arumdina.  "Those things are sacred allies to Garl.  His paladins summon them in battle to fight."

Davenport put away his knives and dodged as the creature nearly bowled him over.  "And _why_ ," he demanded, "is Garl allies with a species that _eats gold?!"_

"Eh, you just gotta train 'em up properly.  They're like truffle-hunting pigs."

Magnus tried grabbing at the creature, but it was faster than it looked and slipped out of the way before he could get his arms around it.

Davenport grumbled something very uncomplimentary under his breath as he tried to scurry out of the way of the creature, who seemed determined to go after him.  "When I get Garl back, we're going to have _words--_ " he said, and was knocked to the floor by the creature's swinging head.

"It's okay, Cap'nport!" said Magnus, making a dash to try to get between the creature and his fallen captain.  "I have animal handling proficiency, and I'm gonna use it now!"

"Why are you saying that out loud?" he groaned, rolling into his back and folding back his legs, ready to kick the creature away from him.  "Just do it!"

But the creature didn't attack him.  It turned away from Davenport and climbed onto the table, its scrabbling feet tearing through the maps and sending them flying.

Magnus got his arms around the thing and pulled it up off the table.  "Bad dog-thing!" he said.  "No biscuit!"  He took a few steps back, trying to hold its squirming, compact body in place.  He caught sight of Davenport still lying on the floor, groaning as maps drifted through the air and fell around and on top of him.

"I got it, Cap!" he said.  "You okay?"

Davenport grabbed the two maps that had fallen on his face and lifted them up.  "Yeah, I'm fine.  I just--"  He broke off, his eyes snapping to the maps.  He frowned.  "Wait… _wait."_

The aurumvorax snorted, as if it were incredibly pleased with itself.  And then it vanished.

Davenport was on his feet, holding up the two maps against each other so that the light from the window shone against their blank backsides.

"Wait," said Magnus, "is this one of those things where like, special magic writing only shows up in sunlight?"

He shook his head.  "No, it's…hold on…"  He lay the two maps on the table and pulled out his wand, overlaying them with a softly-glowing illusory grid.  He tapped the wand over the points that marked Ruin's attacks on the top map, leaving a glowing dot on the grid.  Then he set that map aside, and tapped the points on the map below it.  One by one he grabbed the maps, even the ones torn and shredded by the aurumvorax's claws, carefully aligned them to the grid and marked all the places where Ruin had attacked.

"I've been using the ring model for the orientation of the celestial realms," he said.  "But what if they're not?  Distance doesn't work the same there; each realm is technically infinite.  What if they're layered on top of each other?"

"Like a stack of pancakes?" Magnus offered.

"Yeah, like a--just like that.  Hand me that map of Faerun--the one I've marked up, there."

Magnus carefully untacked the map from the wall.  In his captain's neat handwriting, he had marked all the known sightings of Ruin, based on Avi's reports and whatever intel they'd managed to glean from witnesses.  Davenport slid it beneath the gridline, turning it this way and that, orienting it until the small scattering of dots lined up with the dots already on the grid.

Then he took out his wand, and connected all the dots. 

Magnus squinted.  It wasn't a ring, or any shape he recognized.  The lines zig-zagged back and forth across the center of Faerun, before curving back up along the coast for a long, graceful arc.  Then it turned sharply inland, not far from the Hills of Tethyr, before starting at the top of the zig-zag again.  Davenport drew each line with a sure stroke, as if he knew this shape like the back of his own hand.

He stepped back from the map, his brow furrowed.  "This…doesn't make sense," he said.  "Why would Ruin…"  He trailed off, covering his mouth with one hand, a gesture Magnus recognized as a sign that his captain didn't like what he was seeing.

Magnus looked at the glowing path marked over Faerun.  It did seem a little familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.  "What is it?" he asked.

Davenport took a deep breath.  "It's our holding pattern from the Relic Wars," he said.  "This is the route the Starblaster took."


	16. Cut Loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus has a timeless quality. Arumdina changes hands. Davenport attracts the wrong kind of attention.

Magnus stared at the map and the glowing trail above it, showing--apparently--both the path of Ruin and the path of the Starblaster.  His first thought was that this serpent construct thing was playing some sort of weird copycat game.  His second thought was, why was it trying to copy them?

"Avi?  This is Davenport."  Cap'nport was on the Stone of Farspeech, glaring intently at the map spread out on the table.  "Was Ruin recently spotted over the Moonshae Isles?"  Pause.  "How long ago?"  Pause.  His eyes widened.  He turned and ran up the stairs, out onto the deck.

"Uh, what the heck is going on?" asked Arumdina.  "Also, Mags, could you be a pal and get me out of the ceiling?"

"I think shit may be going down," said Magnus, turning the little stove off.  No time for calm-down tea now.  He grabbed Arumdina by the hilt; predictably, she disappeared.  He heard Davenport's surprised cry outside, as the axe landed in his hands again.  He thudded up the stairs to follow.

Davenport stood on the edge of the deck, staring northwest up the coast.  The _Wave Smasher_ was currently anchored in Firedrake Bay, on a little dock by a forested coastline.  He set Arumdina down and pulled out his spyglass, doing a sweep along the horizon.  "There it is.  Damn it.  Right on schedule."

Magnus squinted.  There was a red line on the horizon.

Davenport lifted the Stone to his mouth again.  "Avi!  Still there?  I'm gonna need a huge favor.  I need you to send me a sphere, _right now,_ at the following coordinates."  He listed a string of numbers.  "Got all that?"

"Uh, Cap?  Are you gonna try to have Avi hit that thing?"

Davenport snapped his spyglass shut.  "No," he said.  "I'm going up to get a better look."

A retrieval sphere with the Bureau of Benevolence logo crashed into the sandy bank.

Cap'nport ducked back into the hold, and emerged a moment later, pulling on a clunky pair of boots.  "Okay, Magnus, I need you to pilot the sphere for me.  Can you do that?"  He slipped Arumdina through a strap on his back.

Magnus saluted.  "Aye aye, Cap'n!"

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Davenport's mouth.  "Let's go, then!"

Ruin was much closer by the time they got the balloon deployed and the sphere off the ground.  Magnus used his vehicle proficiency to guide the sphere up and into an intercept course, while his captain kept watch out the windows.  Ruin grew bigger and bigger, and a heavy weight dropped in Magnus's stomach as he realized just how big this thing was. 

Cap'nport pulled Arumdina from her strap and held her up to the window.  "You think you can take that thing down?"

"What?  Like, attack it?"

"That's the idea."  Davenport had that look in his eyes that he always got when he was about to try an incredibly foolhardy stunt.  "Garl couldn't get you close, but I can.  That thing ignores mortals.  I could give you a clear shot."

Arumdina was silent, thinking.  "From this distance, it's hard to tell.  I don't know how thick its hide is, plus it's pretty massive.  And it might have some other resistance to physical or radiant damage that we don't know about.  If it's just a big-ass monster, with no special shielding, I _miiiight_ be able to bring it down in two or three hits, if Garl were wielding me.  But definitely not with you."

"Hey, Cap'nport's stronger than he looks!" said Magnus.

"It's not physical strength that's the limiter here," she said.  "It's…well, Utirhant, you're _mortal."_

He frowned.  "I'm Garl's emissary," he said. 

"Fuck, it's not—look," she said, "you know how I said you were channeling Garl's power whenever you swung me?  But it wasn't enough energy to let me transform?"

"Er, yeah?"

"That's because a mortal soul, inside a physical body, can only channel so much divine energy safely.  Even the most powerful clerics have only so many spell slots.  And emissaries, who have more direct connections, have limits on what they can do.  There's only so much you can tolerate before things go downhill _fast."_

He sat back, chewing his lip.  "So what you're saying is, it's not impossible, it's just risky."

"I'm not sure if 'risk' is the right word when the chance of a bad thing happening is a hundred fucking percent," she said.  "Listen, I am all for trying to kick this thing's ass, but I'm not gonna throw you away in the process."

Magnus frowned.  "You know, I'm all for doing good recklessly," he said, "but I mean, those are some pretty shitty odds."

Davenport sighed.  "All right, all right.  We put that plan aside.  Especially if even Magnus says it's a bad idea."

Magnus tugged the controls, pulling the sphere to the side as Ruin reached them.  It snaked its way past, utterly disinterested in their presence.

"Okay," said Davenport.  "We stick to Plan A, then.  Magnus, hold our position.  I'm gonna get in close and go for a swing."  He slid open the sphere door, and leapt out onto Ruin's back.

Well.  He was a protection fighter, after all.  He picked up the Flaming Raging Poisoning Sword of Doom, and leapt out after his captain. 

Ruin's backside was firm, with almost no give to it.  It was covered in a layer of fine scales, in a deep blood red color.  Its body undulated back and forth slowly, but it was so big that he was in no danger of falling off anytime soon.

Davenport had already started to lift Arumdina for a swing.  He turned to face Magnus and his jaw dropped.  He looked at Magnus, and at the sphere floating away.  "I--Magnus, I told you to hold our position!"

"Well, I thought you could use a hand!"  He drew his sword.  "Two blades are better than one, right?"

Davenport slapped his forehead.  "What if you fall off?  Magnus, you don't have magic!  Or--okay, I guess you do, but time magic isn't going to catch you!"

Magnus looked down at the ground, which was very far below them.  Ruin was beginning to angle inland, following a river inlet that curved into a wide gulch.  But even as the ground rose on either side of them in cliffs of honey-gold stone, it was still very far away, and very rocky.  "Well, you have Featherfall, right?"

Davenport glared.  He pointed to his boots.  "I have magic flying boots!"

"You have flying boots?!"

He winced.  "Well--okay, they're a prototype, and they don't _fly_ exactly, but they do slow my fall.  So I'm reasonably certain that if I fall off this thing, I'm not going to die."

"Well then!  I'll just have to make sure I don't fall off, then!"

"That's not the--"

"Guys, guys!" Arumdina interjected.  "May I remind you that we're on top of this thing now?  Less talking, more slicing!"

"All right!"  Magnus drew his sword, and brought it down against Ruin's back.  The blade bounced off, leaving only the tiniest of scratch marks.  "…Huh.  Okay, that happened."  His brain was trying to process the idea of his sword _not_ doing massive amounts of damage with each hit.

Davenport picked up Arumdina, and brought her down as hard as he could.  Her blade sank about half an inch into the creature's hide.

"Oof, I think this is all armor," she said.  "I'm not getting any actual flesh."

"If it's a construct, it might not have any flesh at all," said Davenport.  He tugged on Arumdina's handle.  She didn't come loose.  "Hold on, I--just need to--"

"Here, Cap'nport, let me help!"  Magnus reached over and grabbed Arumdina by the handle.

She vanished.  Davenport staggered backwards, suddenly holding onto nothing.  And then she dropped into his hands.  He fumbled, off-balance, finally latching onto her with one hand and bringing her down in an awkward swing.

It was less an attack and more like gravity.  Her blade hit at a bad angle, bounced back, and slipped from Davenport's grip.  Magnus watched, heart in throat, as she went flying, landing with another bounce against Ruin's scaled exterior before sliding along its curved backside and off into the gulch.

"Ffffuuuuuuuuuuu….."  Her voice trailed off into the wind.

Magnus turned to Davenport.  "I think she was trying to say 'fuck'," he said.

Davenport stuck out his hand, reaching out in the direction she'd fallen.  "Come on," he said, teeth gritted, "come back come back come back…!"

But she didn't come flying back.  Magnus could see her, barely a golden speck, landing on a ledge just below the lip of the cliff face.

"Damn it!"  Davenport drew a pair of daggers and attempted to drive them directly into Ruin.  One of them bent, and the other snapped completely.  _"Aaugh!"_ He threw the now-useless daggers away and pounded at Ruin's back with his fists.  "Give me Garl back so I can yell at him!"

"Hey, we can get her back later!" said Magnus.  "But we're still here, and there's no way this thing can dodge us, right?  Do you have any other weapons you could use?  I could lend you Railsplitter?"

Davenport's fists were clenched.  "Magnus," he growled, "you… _damn it._ "  He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the golden twenty-sided die.  "I have this, but it's only once per day and I've already used it."

"Well, I mean--that doesn't matter if time isn't passing."

"What?"

Magnus froze time. 

Well…it wasn't actually the world that was stopping.  It felt more like he was slipping through the cracks between seconds.  Davenport stared up at him, his body--like everything else--leeched of color, his face frozen in a mask of confusion.  Magnus looked down at his Tempus Bracer, where there was a tiny hole by the rim of the clock face.  Sticking out of that hole was a single iridescent thread.

He'd thought that figuring out all the things the Bracer could do would be tricky.  Magic had always eluded him, with its complex runes and summoning circles and spell slots to manage.  But the Bracer was the most natural thing in the world, like he always just knew what he was supposed to do to make it work.  Like swinging an axe.  He knew how to swing an axe.  And he knew how to use this single strand of fate that Istus had given him.

He unspooled a length of the thread, and tied the loose end to Davenport's wrist.  As soon as he secured the knot, the thread seemed to vanish, and Davenport unfroze.

"What--"  He looked around.  "Where are we?  Is this the ethereal plane?" 

Magnus grinned.  "We're between time," he said mysteriously.  "It's a chronomancy thing.  But now you can use your die all you want!  And I can hit Ruin enough that I can do actual damage!"

Davenport got shakily to his feet.  He looked down the length of Ruin towards its tail end.  He pulled out his spyglass.  "Huh.  Magnus, I think with the way this thing is undulating, its tail end might get pretty close to where Arumdina is."  He looked up at Magnus.  "You, uh, thinking what I'm thinking?"

Magnus nodded.  "Right!  Just say when!"  He unfroze time.  The sky turned blue again, and Ruin turned red, continuing its way up the gulch.  The tip of its tail swung back and forth, almost but not quite hitting the cliffs on either side of its path.

"Almost…"  Davenport watched through the spyglass.  "Aaaand--now!"

The world stopped.

And now Ruin was a path for them to follow.  They just had to follow the length of its body, doing as much damage as they could along the way, and they'd end up at the tail, right by Arumdina.  "Alright, let's do this!" said Magnus, hefting his blade.  "Just me and the cap'n!"

For the first time in a long time, he heard his Cap'nport laugh.  "You know," he said, putting away his spyglass, "I kinda missed this.  You and your wild schemes, I mean."  He grinned up at the fighter.  "Let's give this thing hell!"  And he threw the die.  It landed, freezing immediately when it hit Ruin's surface.

As if the die understood that he wanted to do as much damage as possible, a Blade Barrier sprung up in front of them and immediately froze in place.  They walked around it, Magnus striking Ruin with the Sword of Doom as he went, while Davenport picked up and threw the die again.  An Aurumvorax manifested and froze in place, its claws already digging into Ruin's back.  Magnus struck three more times.

And so they progressed at a brisk jog down Ruin's length.  Magnus attacked as many times as he could, even switching it up with Railsplitter and the Chance Lance.  Behind him grew a cloud of slowly-building chaos, as the die produced half a dozen aurumvoraxes, a grand piano suspended in the air, a crate of lit fireworks, and a cloud of cluster bombs that Magnus recognized from Refuge, all ready to drop, attack, and/or explode the moment they caught up with real time.

He felt the tug of it growing stronger, like a thread pulling at the back of his skull.  He'd never walked between time for this long, and it was beginning to strain against his hold.  Trying to pull him back into the present.  "Uh, we need to pick up the pace!" he called back to Davenport.  "I don't think I can hold it much longer!"

The air shimmered around his captain, and light bounced off of him oddly.  But before Magnus could take a closer look, the space around Davenport twisted and re-shaped itself.  From the spot where he'd been standing, a dire wolf with reddish-orange fur came bounding towards him.

"Get on board, and hold on!" the wolf roared. 

"All right!"  Magnus gripped Wolf'nport by the fur and swung himself onto his captain's back.  Wolf'nport bounded down Ruin's tapering back, down to the tip of its tail.  Time was starting to catch up; he heard, way behind him, the distant boom and crack of fireworks beginning to explode in slow motion.  "Uh, can we go any faster?"

"Almost there!"  Wolf'nport streaked towards the tail, muscles rippling as he picked up speed. 

The tail wasn't quite at the cliff face.  It was a good thirty-foot leap from the tip to the ledge where Arumdina waited.  "Uh, how far can dire wolves jump?" he asked.

Wolf'nport made a strange noise, a series of high-pitched yelps.  Magnus realized he was laughing.  "We'll be fine!  We're gonna make it!"  His wolf-eyes were wide, and glowing golden.  His fur shimmered.  "Hold on!"

And he leapt.

Magnus couldn't wrap his mind around what happened next.  He felt Wolf'nport land on something in the middle of the empty space between Ruin and ledge.  He felt the sink of both their bodies, the pull of gravity, and then they were bouncing up again.  As if Wolf'nport had landed on an invisible trampoline. 

And then they landed on the ledge.  Magnus slipped back into real time.  Color flooded the world.  He turned just in time to see the all the built-up attacks go off at once, blooming in a line down Ruin's entire length:  a burst of explosions, the fizz of fireworks, the roar of a pack of angry aurumvoraxes, the whizzing of phantasmal blades, the ringing impact of the Flaming Raging Poisoning Sword of Doom, and the distant tinkling crash of a piano.

And he saw something he hadn't seen before:  a mark on Ruin's hide, not far from the tail.  A seven-pointed star, white against red.

Ruin roared.  It was a sound like the whole earth cracking.  Its head snapped back in their direction, and slowly the rest of its body angled into its new course.

It was coming back for them.

 

#

 

Davenport landed beside Arumdina and shook off his wolf-form.  Behind him, Ruin roared, reeling back from the combined attack.  The sky itself seemed to twist as reality stretched to accommodate the chaotic energy he'd unleashed all at once.  He laughed.  They had this in the bag.

"Hey, Arumdina!  Missed me?"  He grabbed her by the hilt.

"Holy fuck, kiddo!" she cried.  "What did you just _do?"_

He laughed even more.  He didn't even know why he was laughing.  His whole body felt hot and light.  Sparks flashed before his eyes.  "We just gave that thing a good bruising!" he crowed.  "Isn't that right, Mags?  Maggie?  Magpie?"  He giggled.

Magnus had been staring at Ruin, frowning.  He turned back to Davenport.  "Uh…Cap'nport, are you okay?" 

Well, that was a silly question.  "Yeah, of course, ol' buddy!  We did it!  Congratulations, us!"

Arumdina paused before asking, so quietly he could barely hear her over the roar in his ears, "Utirhant, how many times did you roll that die?"

He tried to remember.  He knew he'd kept track in the moment, he was--he was pretty sure he'd done that?  But he couldn't access the actual number at the moment.  Math was weird, anyway.  It was just a bunch of rules that were meant to be bent if they got in the way of his fun.  "I dunno," he said, starting to get annoyed at Arumdina's concern.  Like he couldn't handle himself.  He was the _Captain,_ damn it.  No matter what anyone said.  "Does it matter?  Come on, let's finish this thing off and go home."  He hefted her up, letting her weight fall back on his shoulder.

But she wasn't done yapping at him.  "It matters a lot!  You _do_ _realize_ there's a reason the die is limited to once per day?  You just channeled _way_ more of Garl's power than you should've.  _That isn't good._ Your aura is bugging the fuck out!"

"Uh, Cap'nport?"  Magnus was falling into a defensive stance, shield up.  "That thing is doing…something?  It may be charging for an attack!"

Davenport glanced at it.  The creature's massive body was hard to make out through whatever glittering haze was obscuring his vision right now, but it definitely seemed to be glowing red and sort of contorting in air.  Unless it was staying perfectly still and space was just distorting around it?  The possibility blew his mind.  Reality was so _weird._

And bendy, too.  In fact, if he tilted his head a little, if he pulled the space where he was and the space where Ruin was closer together, he was pretty sure he could spring over there in a single step.  So he did that.

"Kiddo, _what the fuck?!"_ Arumdina cried. 

"Cap'nport?!" Magnus cried, from a long way off behind him.

"Calm down," said Davenport, standing on the cliff edge right by Ruin's head.  "I've got this!"  Ruin turned its face towards him, but all six of its eyes were closed.  It didn't even see him.  He lifted Arumdina, preparing to swing her down in a killing blow. 

"Don't swing me!"  Arumdina was yelling now, trying to yank herself from his grip.  "Put me _down!_   Utirhant, if you swing me again, you are _going to die!"_

"Stop telling me what I can't do!"  He staggered back a step, shifted his grip to hold onto her better. 

The creature opened its eyes.

Davenport froze.  The red light of its gaze drove deep inside him, holding him in place.  The heat in his veins started to burn.  The light drove deeper, and latched onto something vital that he had no name for--his heart?--his soul?--and began to squeeze. 

He screamed.  He tried to scream.  He wasn't sure if any sound was coming out of him or if it was all in his head.  The creature kept squeezing; that nameless vital part of him began to crack. 

And then it shattered. 

The burning in his veins retreated.  He dropped Arumdina, who had suddenly become too heavy to lift.  Everything felt weirdly heavy--his body, his breath, his sluggish thoughts.  He sank to his knees.

Arumdina's form began to shimmer and fade.  "I'm sorry," she said, her voice trailing off.  "I am so, so sorry…" 

Too late, he realized what was happening.  "No--no, Arumdina, don't--!" he cried, gripping her shaft.  But she dissolved into particles of light beneath his fingers.  Distantly, he was aware of Magnus calling his name but it didn't matter, _nothing_ mattered except that Arumdina was gone, he'd _lost her_.  He reached into his pocket for the die, but it too crumbled as his fingers tightened around it, and he pulled out nothing but a small handful of gold dust that blew away on the wind.

He stared at his empty hand.  Understanding rolled in like a cold tide, leaving him numb and unable to breathe.  Of course Arumdina had left him.  Of course the die was gone.  Those had been gifts for the emissary of Garl Glittergold.

And he wasn't.  Not anymore.

He didn't move.  The creature opened its mouth, and swallowed him in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, thanks for tuning in to my Emissary Davenport series. That about wraps it up--
> 
> Just kidding! Fear not, loyal readers. I'm not gonna leave you hanging, and this is _definitely_ not the end of this story, not by a long shot. Cursory estimate has me thinking this'll be about the halfway point. There's still a lot of twists, turns, and reveals to come! As for what happened to Davenport, well...keep reading, and I promise all will be revealed in due time!
> 
> That being said, I am unfortunately going to have to take a (very brief) break from this, as I've got an event coming up next weekend that I need to focus my attention on. So the next update will be April 17, ten days from now. Until then, peace out! I love you all, and your continued support gives me life! :)


	17. Lost Emissary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lup and Barry have Theories. Taako threatens to sue. Magnus recruits a new friend.

Far above the Prime, the Golden Hills sat silent and empty.  At the top of the highest of the hills sat Brighthall, the sparkling manse of Garl Glittergold.  And in that manse, in the great hall that had played host to a thousand thousand feasts, a single golden axe popped out of the air and landed, blade-first, into the center of the broad oak table.

The hall rang with the hard thunk of metal digging into wood.  And then it was silent again.

Arumdina wasn't able to cry.  She didn't have the physiology for it.  But she still felt sorrow and frustration.  She could feel it now, building up at the tip of her shaft and rolling slowly down to her blades like a wave.

She reached for Garl, but heard nothing in reply.  She reached for Davenport, and met the same awful silence.

And then the wave of sorrow broke, crashing through the whole length of her.  She screamed.

Nobody heard her.

 

#

 

"Well," said Lup, "good news is, he's not dead.  Or in immediate mortal peril."

Magnus looked up, his eyes wild with desperate hope.  "He isn't?"

Taako grimaced.  "He was just swallowed by a giant, god-eating serpent!" he cried, tugging on the brim of his purple wizard hat.  "How the fuck is he not in mortal peril?!"

"Hey, I don't like it any more than you do!"  Lup huffed.  "It sucks on toast.  But the Book of the Dead would tell us if he's about to die, and it's not."  She gestured at Kravitz, who stood in the center of Parley, holding the book open.  Or really, part of the book.  The Book of the Dead was so large that they could only look at a fragment of it at a time.  "So that's what we've got."

Barry patted Magnus on the shoulder.  "We'll figure it out, bud," he said.  "We'll get him back."  It had been a few hours since they'd answered the fighter's panicked Stone call and rescued him from the ledge he'd been stuck on, and in that time, Mags had run a whole marathon of emotions before sinking into exhausted silence. 

On Magnus's other side, Merle patted the fighter's knee reassuringly, but he too looked stricken and confused.  Not that Lup could blame him.  The fact that Davenport had run off to try to attack Ruin directly, after insisting that Merle not risk himself?  What the hell?  She was tempted to try to blast Ruin open just so she could yell at her captain.

She glanced over at Lucretia, half expecting the woman to step up in Davenport's absense.  If anyone knew how to keep her head in a crisis, it was Lucretia.  But Lucretia looked in even worse shock than Merle.  She showed it differently:  her face was a stone mask, her eyes focused on some faraway point.  But Lup could see the faint twitch of her jaw muscles, the tight grip of her hands over a white quill.  Lucretia looked ready to crack.

"I hate to ask this," said Angus into the heavy silence, "but are you sure the Book is still working?  Has it been affected by any of the disruptions in divine power?"

Barry adjusted his glasses.  "So far, not that we've been able to tell.  Other people's deaths are showing up just fine."

"He might be unconscious?" said Merle.  "That might explain why I couldn't pull him into Parley…"  There was a deep frown on his face, as if he didn't quite believe his own theory.

Lup echoed his frown.  She felt fire moving beneath her skin, and wanted nothing more than to let it all out, straight at that fucking wyrm.  But even if she could catch up to Ruin--then what?  Her fire couldn't lay a scratch on that thing.  She'd already had to talk Magnus down from volunteering to throw himself down the beast's gullet in a desperate rescue attempt.  She didn't want to contribute to a chain of badly-thought-out suicide missions. 

For once, it was probably a good thing that Ruin hadn't stuck around to give Magnus a chance to try anything stupid.  It had swallowed her captain and just gone on its merry fucking way.

She turned to Kravitz, but the reaper was staring at the page, frowning.  "There _is_ nothing wrong with the Book, right?"

Kravitz ran a hand over his mouth.  "It's…I'm not sure.  This can't be right."

She strode to his side and looked down at the page.  There was Davenport's entry, same as any other mortal who wasn't in immediate danger of kicking off.  The whole list of all his gnome names, plus his age, his race, his birthdate.  A note referring to his previous deaths and cleared bounty.  A perfectly normal entry.  "Don't leave us hanging, Skeletor!  If there's something going on, just spit it out!"

Kravitz's frown deepened.  "His entry's been changed.  He's not dying, but look here."  He tapped his finger at the empty space beside his entry.  "There used to be a note here, marking his status as an emissary of Garl Glittergold.  It's been there from the moment he entered this planar system.  But now it's…gone _."_

Now Barry was on Kravitz's other side, also peering down at the page.  "What do you mean, gone?  Can that even happen?"

"Under normal circumstances, the granting deity—and only that deity—can revoke emissary status.  It's happened before.  But in that case, there'd be a note to that effect, right here."  He tapped the empty space again.  "But it's just _gone._   As if…"  His brow pinched.  "As if he was never an emissary in the first place."   

Lup whirled in Magnus's direction.  "Okay, Mags," she said, "tell us _everything_ you saw.  What the fuck happened?"

Magnus was frowning, but there was a quiver in his jaw that suggested he was a hairs-breadth away from collapsing into tears.  It was bad enough during the Century whenever he'd failed to protect his family and someone died; but now there were no resets to count on.  This time, death would stick.

He took a deep, shaky breath.  "So Cap'nport wanted to get on top of this thing, try to hit it with Arumdina.  But when we got there, she kinda…got dropped off of Ruin.  By accident.  And his daggers didn't work, and the only other thing he had was this golden die.  I guess it was one of those once-a-day artifacts?  So I had this idea to, you know, freeze time so he could use it as many times as he needed to.  And I'd try to, you know…hit it as many times as I could.  So we did that.  And after everything blew up, we regrouped with Arumdina and I thought we might have done some sort of damage--I mean we definitely attracted its attention.  But Cap'nport was glowing, and acting really weird?  Like…"  His frown deepened.  He looked up at Lup.  "Remember that one cycle where he ate those blue leaves?"

"Blue leaves?"  Kravitz glanced at the others.

"Ah shit, I remember those," said Merle.  "We found these succulant blue plants that were edible, so Taako made 'em into a salad for dinner.  But, uh, they reacted to gnome physiology a bit different than the rest of us."

"It was like catnip for gnomes," said Taako.  "He was friggin' high as a kite for hours."

"Yeah, it was like that!"  Magnus nodded.  "And then Arumdina said something about it, like he'd used too much Garl juice or whatever, and it was messing with him.  But then he teleported over to Ruin so he could get in a good strike with her--"

"Wait, he _teleported?"_   Barry's eyebrows shot up. 

"Yeah, and it was like no big deal for him?  But then…"  He frowned, his face scrunching up.  "There was this weird red light that shone from Ruin's eyes.  And then Arumdina disappeared.  And then…"  His jaw trembled.  "He got eaten." 

Lucretia sucked in a sharp breath.  It was the first noise she'd made since Parley began.  And there was something else in her face.  Guilt, Lup realized.  As if Lucretia somehow thought this whole shitty situation was her fault.

Lup frowned.  Her thoughts whirled, and she wasn't quite sure where they was going.  "At the Root," she said.  "The halflings there said there was a red light, just before their goddess got sucked up.  And you said Arumdina disappeared after the red light, but before he was eaten?"

"Yeah?"

She met Barry's gaze.  "What if that red light was some sort of attack that…disabled or suppressed whatever divine power Davenport was using?  Whatever Garl juice he was drawing on, whatever let him stay connected to Arumdina--it just cut that off?"

Barry's eyes lit up.  "Oh man.  What if…oh no."  He began to pace.  "Magnus, you said that after all those attacks, it came back, grabbed Davenport and just left?  Did it seem to take any damage from all those attacks you pulled off?  Did it notice you at all?"

A faint flush crept across Magnus's cheeks.  "Uh…not that I could see?  I mean, there _could_ have been, but I couldn't get a good look at its topside after all the explosions--"

Lup picked up on Barry's line of thought.  "So what if it didn't come back because you two attacked it, but because Davenport was using so much god-juice that it thought he was another god?"

"Could we please not call it god-juice?" Taako interjected.

"So Ruin could be like some sort of predator that disables its target first!" said Barry, becoming more and more excitable as the idea gelled in his head.  "Like a spider that paralyzes its prey before sucking out the fluids--"

"Can we _please_ not use _fluids_ in this context?!"

"And it might have thought Davenport was some sort of god," Lup continued, mentally bouncing off of Barry's ideas, "so it tried the same thing on him!  But he wasn't a god, so--"

"So it just stopped him being an emissary!"

Barry's last proclamation landed like a crash.  Everyone stared at him.

Kravitz sat down hard.  "Oh no," he said.  "Oh _no."_

 

#

 

"Krav?"  Taako watched his boyfriend's face crumple and turn so pale he thought the poor man was gonna go skeleton.  But Kravitz kept his skin on.  Still, he looked like someone had just run up to him and punched him in the gut and stolen the Raven Queen from him a second time.  He crossed the room and sat down next to him, intwining their fingers together.  Kravitz's hands were ice-cold.  "You okay, babe?"

Kravitz shook his head and gathered himself up.  "Yeah, I'm fine, sweetie," he said.  "Just a little…a little surprised, is all."

Taako didn't believe him for a second.  This wasn't just 'a little surprised.'  Krav was shaken to his core.  And Taako realized he'd never seen Krav this shaken, this _scared_ , since the Hunger.  Even when Ruin sucked up the gods, he'd seemed more mad and determined than actually scared.

"Look, we'll just have to keep our distance and be careful," said Barry.  "So far, it doesn't seem interested in actively seeking out emissaries, so…there is that."

"Then what is it doing?" asked Angus, adjusting his glasses.  "We still don't have an answer for that."

"Well, any luck on finding out if or how it's connected to that cult you were investigating?" asked Lup.  "I think that was really our only lead."

Angus shook his head.  "I wasn't able to find anything out, besides the fact that they have a super powerful sword."  He frowned.  Taako saw his little hands open and close, as if trying to grasp something. 

"The Starblaster," said Magnus suddenly.  "It's mimicking the Starblaster."  He looked up at all of them around the room.  "That's what Cap'nport figured out just before we fought it."

"Uh, rewind there, Mags," said Taako.  "He figured out what now?"

Magnus rose to his feet.  "He was trying to figure out the pattern in this thing's route, right?  Turns out it's flying in the same holding pattern the Starblaster did!  You know, back during the Relic Wars?"

Taako met Barry and Lup's faces.  They looked just as confused and low-key horrified as he felt.

"And in a weird way, it makes sense," said Magnus.  "It's in a holding pattern--"

"--flying over the world while it falls apart," Lup finished.  Bleak despair flooded her face.  Taako's heart squeezed at the sight of it.  He wanted to go to her, but he also didn't want to leave Krav.

But thankfully Barry was there by her side.  He took her hand and leaned against her, in a silent gesture of comfort.  "But why would it do that?" he asked, directing the question more at the others than at Lup.  "Why is it copying us?  What's the goal, here?"

Taako's fingers tightened around Krav's.  He knew what everyone else in the room was probably thinking.  The Starblaster had waited for the war to sort itself out, but that had never happened.  The only thing that had broken them out of their holding pattern was--

He glanced at Lucretia.  She was rigid, her fingers clenched over her knees, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Gods, he hated this.

"Well," he said, keeping his voice light, "you know they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  But, uh, this is really crimping on our brand.  So I say, even if we can't blow it out of the sky, we should definitely check to see if we can turn up any other, uh, IP infringements.  Just sue this fucker out of the sky."

It worked.  Lup snorted.  The tears glimmering in her eyes finally spilled over, but her mouth quirked in a smile.  And just like that, the unbearable tension in the room broke. 

"That might not be a bad idea, actually, sir," said Angus.  "There may be other connections there that we aren't seeing."

Lup nodded.  "Mags, you said this thing was copying the Starblaster's route?  Did Davenport mark it down anywhere?  Do we have a copy of that?"

The conversation broke down after that, as everyone asked everyone else whether they had a map of that route.  But that was a big fat no-go.  Davenport had sketched it out with an illusion which was no longer there.  Mags vaguely remembered the shape of the route, but that was it.  The original map had been lost aboard the Starblaster, Lucretia didn't have a copy in her BOB records, and the incredibly-detailed facsimile of the Starblaster that they were sitting in had a bare, non-functional console and empty map cubbies because Davenport was gone.

"Well, fuck," said Lup.  "We finally figure out how to track this thing and we lose it!"

Magnus's face was scrunched up in his "I'm thinking" expression.  "I have an idea," he said slowly.  "I'm not sure if it'll work, but…I think I might know someone who could help.  Maybe.  I can check as soon as I get back to the boat."

Lup nodded.  "Well, it's a start.  In the meantime, the rest of us can start looking for other connections this thing might have to the Starblaster.  See if we can spot any more IP theft."

"Well, it is red," said Merle.  "Wrong shade, but still red."

"And there was a star on its side," offered Mags.  "Or an explosion?"

"Wait, a star?"  Taako's eyebrows shot up.  "Back the fuck up, Mags.  It has a logo on it?"

"Well…maybe not a logo _per se_ ," said Mags.  "But, like, a symbol on its side?  Like you know how cattle have branding marks?  It was a big white jaggedy star-shape, with--"

"With seven points?"  Angus was on his feet.

"Uh…I think so?"

Angus pulled out his wand--a new one, Taako noticed--and sketched out an image of a white star against a dark red field.  There was an intense look in his eyes.  "This is the logo of the Church of the Cleansing Fire."

"…Huh," said Barry.

"…Huh," said Lup.

"I knew it!" said Angus.  "I knew there was a connection there!  Somehow that cult is behind Ruin, or--or they're worshipping it, or--they're connected somehow!"

Kravitz rose to his feet.  His eyes were wide and his hands were still cold.  "I recognize that image," he said.  "There was--I may have records of that cult.  Merle, send me back.  I think I need to do some research."

Taako stood beside him.  "You want some company, babe?" he offered.  He knew Krav well enough to see he was still a little shaky on his feet. 

"I'm good," said Kravitz, far too quickly. 

Taako glanced at Lup.  He tilted his head ever so slightly at Krav, and she gave him a quick nod.

It was times like these where Taako remembered that Kravitz's heart had been alone for centuries.  Working cases solo, no time for romance or even relaxation.  The poor guy didn't know how to ask for help.

Taako knew that feeling.  Thanks to Lucretia, he knew it all too well.

 

#

 

Ozrith pulled out her enchanted compass and stared at it for the hundredth time that day.  But it was still acting strangely, the arm swinging back and forth faster than anybody could possibly be moving. 

It was, in theory, supposed to always direct her to her target.  But unless Captain Davenport had hopped in another spaceship and was flying back and forth over Faerun faster than a dragon could fly, she had no idea what this meant.

Was it broken?  Maybe it was broken.  Maybe she had so much doubt in her heart about her mission that the thing just stopped registering where he was. 

She sighed, nestling back into the bush where she'd hidden herself.  Maybe it was finally time to go back home and to accept her fate.  Maybe being a meat beetle wouldn't be so bad.  Their voices were high and tinny and kind of clicky, but she could sing and sing and nobody would care.

Something gripped the back of her tunic and pulled her out of the bush. 

"I'm inedible!" she screamed, kicking out with her clawed feet and scrambling to pull her dagger out of its sheath. 

"Hail, and well met!" said the burly human, setting her down.  "Don't run away, little friend.  I just want to talk."

Ozrith looked up at him.  And up, and up.  Wow, she didn't realize humans could get that tall.  "You, uh, wanna talk?" she asked dubiously.  Humans didn't normally want to _talk_ to kobolds. 

He beamed.  "I'm Magnus Burnsides," he said.  "You know, from the Story?"

She blinked.  "Oh wow," she said.  " _The_ Magnus Burnsides?"  She took a step back.  "The most feared of the Seven Birds, the one who always rushes in to battle because he desires the blood of monsters so much??  _That_ Magnus Burnsides?"

He stared at her, his smile fading.  He rubbed the back of his head.  "To be honest, I'm pretty used to expecting my Rustic Hospitality to help me out here," he said. 

She stared at him.  She knew she should run, but she also knew she'd probably be dead before she got two steps away.

"Look," he said, holding up his empty hands, "I'm not here to hurt you.  I just have a favor to ask you, since…well, I know you two argued last time you met, but I'm pretty sure you're friends with my captain?"

_Friends?_   Ozrith's jaw dropped.  Is that what they were??

"And I know you've been following us," he continued.  "So I figured you had some ability to track him.  And, well…we need help finding him.  And I think you're the only one in the world who can help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Davenport, landing on Ruin and punching it: Give me back my god so I can yell at him!  
>  _Ruin eats Davenport_  
>  Lup, landing on Ruin and punching it: Give me back my captain so I can yell at him!


	18. The Gnome Who Couldn't Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger comes to town. The jeweler gets a new roommate. The gravekeeper has grave doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a panic attack in this chapter.

In a quiet part of Faerun, there is a quiet village.  It sits in a quiet river valley between rows of mountains that nobody bothers to cross.  It boasts no particular trade or unusual landmark that would bring travelers to its one dusty main street.  It is only good at one thing, and that is being left alone.

The people who live in this village are a diverse group: humans and elves and dwarves, gnomes and halflings, and rarer things besides, boasting a wide variety of trades and skills which keeps the place self-sufficient.  But they all have one thing in common:  they are veterans of a terrible, cataclysmic war.  They all lost much in that war, if you ask them, even if they are hazy on the specifics.  (Memory is a tricky thing, especially at their age.)  But they all remember that they fought; they fought hard and tried their best.

They failed. 

After the war was lost, they carved a home here, drawn together by fate or perhaps just chance.  They didn't even bother to name the village, even as buildings went up and its population expanded into the many dozens.  It was just home: a lovely valley, a good place to settle and rest and recover.  And so the days passed in peace and comfort, with weekly poker nights and monthly barn dances, and the occasional group of new faces arriving from the warfront. 

Soon new arrivals stopped coming.

"It seems that it has finished," said the gravekeeper, a dour and regal woman with a reputation for bureaucracy.  She liked when things were wrapped up neatly.  She did not particularly like what this particular ending implied, but she was good at accepting the inevitable.

"I don't believe it's truly finished," said her friend, the local handywoman who lived in the village's modest clock tower.  "Nothing ever really is."  She was a steady, creative soul, a fixer of broken things.  Her hands were always moving; right now, she was knitting squares for an afghan.  She hadn't decided who the afghan would be for, yet.  Everything in its time.   

Their third friend laughed.  "You _would_ say that," he said.  He was a taller, outdoorsy-type who could best be described as 'shaggy.'  He worked in the local clinic and was known for making the best wine in town, as well as throwing the wildest parties.  "It's all a cycle, anyway.  We retire, we fade away into the sunset, but others will pop up to keep up the good fight, ya know?" 

He was an optimistic sort.

The gravekeeper frowned, her mouth pinched and small in her pale face.  "I know that some things must not be allowed to stand," she said.  "When the natural order is disrupted, one cannot sit idly back and assume it will simply work itself out."

"But no one has been able to cross the mountains," said the handywoman, her needles clicking. 

The trio fell silent, staring off at said mountains, brows furrowed.  But none of them could come up with any solutions, and so the conversation was dropped--as it had been dropped many times before.  And life, in the quiet village, went on.

Until someone new fell from the sky.

A gnome landed hard just outside the town gate, and lay staring up at the sky as the dust settled around him.  The handywoman, repairing a broken cuckoo clock on her front porch, got up and ran to see what had happened.  She looked him over, but nothing appeared to be broken.  She touched his cheek, very gently.  He seemed familiar to her somehow, but not in a way that the other villagers were familiar to her.  She asked him his name.  But he was still stunned by the impact, and his mouth worked silently.  So she scooped him up and carried him to the clinic.

Her shaggy friend examined him, cleaning and bandaging his scrapes.  "There there, man," he drawled.  "You're gonna be fine.  Welcome to our little slice of Paradise."

"Am I dead?" asked the gnome, his throat raw.

"Naaah!  If you were dead, believe me, Raven would be here already, to drag your corpse to the graveyard.  But you're alive and kicking."

The gnome frowned, and looked at the handywoman and the cleric.  Suddenly he grabbed the cleric by the wrist.  His grip was like iron, his eyes were wild and desperate.

"My name," he whispered.  _"Ask me my full name."_

"Uh…what's your full name?"

The gnome winced.  "Captain Dwimly Drew True-Blue Wrenchfell Cloch Cap'nport Davenport," he said.

And then he began to weep.

"Whoa, man!  Are you okay?" asked the cleric. 

The gnome drew his knees to his chest, closing up like a shell.  "I've lost my name," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  "The one he gave me."  He didn't protest as the handywoman pulled him into her broad arms, letting his tears fall into her long white hair.  "I can't feel him!" he sobbed.  "He's gone, it's like--like the door's not there!  Like it was _never there._ "  He took the handkerchief the cleric handed him, and wiped his face.  "And I lost Arumdina, too…Fuck!"  He punched the examination bed with one balled-up fist.  "Sorry."

"Hey, no need to apologize, man," said the cleric.  "Just let it all out!"  He leaned past the door, which was definitely still there, and called out to the waiting room.  "Hey Sharindlar, do me a favor and run over to the jeweler's place?  We've got a--a gnome situation."

"It's going to be all right," the handywoman murmured.  And the gnome relaxed in her grip, shook his head, and pulled himself together with a deep breath.

The handywoman smiled, unsurprised at the gnome's self-control.  She felt as if she knew him very well. 

Still…he was very different from the others in the village, in a way she couldn't quite put her finger on.  A veteran, too, she supposed.  But there was an itch in the back of her head that told her his presence here was an accident.  He was not, under normal circumstances, supposed to be here.

He squinted at her.  "Have we met?" he asked.  "I feel like we've met before.  Or…I'm sorry, this whole situation feels very strange."

"You know," she said, squeezing his hand, "I feel the same way."

"I apologize for, uh, breaking down a bit, there."  He wiped away the last of his tears with his free hand.  "Unprofessional.  Look, do you have, um, a Stone of Farspeech I can borrow?  I need to get in touch with my family, they're probably very concerned right about now."

She shook her head.  "We have no Stones here, unfortunately.  And Message spells appear to be blocked by the mountains.  We've tried."

He frowned.  "Where is…here, anyway?"

The cleric shrugged.  "End of the world, man," he said breezily.

The gnome's frown deepened.  But before he could reply, a second gnome knocked at the door.

"You said another gnome arrived?" asked the jeweler.  He was dressed in fine clothes, and his hands were covered in jeweled rings.  His magnificent coppery mustache twitched in a smile as his eyes fell on the newcomer.  "How delightfully unexpected!"

Davenport stared at the jeweler, and his eyes filled with such confusion and anger and hurt that the handywoman feared he was about to launch himself straight at him.  But he didn't.  The anger drained away, his face crumpled, and he began once more to weep.

 

#

 

The jeweler lived in a communal farm at the edge of the village, with seven other gnome men, a chatty giant raccoon, and their pet albino mole.  It was a pleasant, homey sort of place, and they often played host to the monthly barn dances because the jeweler loved a good party as much as he loved a bright, well-carved jewel.  He was a showy, eccentric sort, prone to pranking, with an unusual habit of talking to his cutlery as if he expected them to talk back to him, and being surprised when they didn’t.  But despite his bizarre habits and the occasional prank that got out of hand, he was warm and genial and generous.

So he was more than happy to take the newcomer in.

"We know each other," said the newcomer.  "Don't you recognize me?"

But the jeweler couldn't recall him.  "You do look familiar, I suppose.  Could you be more specific?"

The newcomer said several things that didn't make sense at all.  And then he tried, "I used to work for you."

"Oh?  Well, I hope I was a pleasant employer!"  And he winked.

The newcomer didn't laugh.

The jeweler set him up with a job in his shop, or tried to.  But despite his insistence that he'd been a previous employee, the newcomer seemed to possess no skills in the areas the jeweler worked in.  He couldn't set jewels, he couldn't cast Illusion spells, and he couldn't tell jokes to save his life.  He said he knew jokes, but when the Jeweler asked him to recite them, he opened his mouth and only silence came out.

The newcomer swore, his brow pinched.  "I know the words," he said.  "I do!  Farmer, field, cows…I can _say_ them, but I can't say the joke.  Why can't I say the joke?"

The jeweler shrugged.  Odd afflictions like this were not unheard of in the village.  They'd all lost so much in the war.

The greater loss--in the jeweler's humble opinion at least--was that his new friend didn't laugh at his jokes.  Because he couldn't laugh at all.  That ability had also been taken from him. 

The newcomer could only stare blankly when a joke was told.  He barely registered when someone tried to tickle him.  He couldn't even smile in mirth.  A real pity, the jeweler thought.

"You're as gloomy and serious as the gravekeeper," he said, only half in jest.  "Maybe I should send you to work for her!"

The newcomer grew pale.  "No!" he said, his voice breaking on the sharp word.  "Please, Garl, don't send me away!  I c-can't--I can't lose you again!  Please."

Well.  Who was the jeweler to turn his back on such a heartfelt plea?  "My boy, I'd never send you away, if you don't want to go.  I just want you to find a place in the village where you can fit.  I just want you to be happy."

This declaration seemed to pain his friend, whose face crumpled as if the jeweler had just punched him in the gut.  He rubbed his face with both hands.

"Garl," he said, "I d-don't know why the parts of me that were connected to you are so--so _broken_ right now.  I could laugh and tell jokes before I ever worked for you.  I mean, not very well, but it's not like you… _gave_ me a sense of humor.  But maybe…"  He ran his hands through his hair, and began to pace through the little living room.  "Gods, what if it's like Fisher all over again?  Those parts of me were so tied up in _you_ that when you went, they…I c-couldn't…"  He stopped.  His face turned even more pale, almost white, and he began to tremble. 

"My boy…"  Concerned, the jeweler led the newcomer to a chair where he could sit down.  "Take it slow, you're safe here.  You're all right."  It wasn't the first time his friend had panicked upon discovering another piece of himself had been lost.  He held his friend, rubbing circles into his back, until he calmed again. 

"Bonds," he said suddenly.  "It's all bonds!"  He looked the jeweler in the face.  "I'm a stranger to you, like our…our bonds have been severed, somehow." 

This was an odd thing to say.  He shrugged. 

"I know what I want to do," he said.  "The old potato cellar, give it to me to use as a laboratory.  I need to run some experiments."

"You want to run experiments?"

The newcomer's cheeks twitched, as if his face were trying to smile but something was preventing it from doing so.  "I'm a bond engineer," he said.  "This is something I can do."

The jeweler scratched his head.  "Well," he said.  "If it'll make you happy, then consider it yours, my boy."

"Thank you, Garl."  He bowed his head as he said it, as if he were praying.

 

#

 

The gravekeeper sat in her office of stone and iron, beside the plot of pale grass which had been set aside as the village's cemetary.  The plot was empty of graves, because nobody in the village had died yet.  Besides a few dark trees, its only marker was a pillar of pale marble topped with a black marble raven:  a sign that this was her domain, small but patient.  Waiting.

She checked her meticulous recordbook, which listed every member of the community, each with an empty space beside the name:  a space set aside for their date of death.  Everything looked to be as it should be.  And yet she couldn't shake the feeling that her records had been messed with, possibly by the newcomer.  Or in relation to the newcomer.  At the very least, there was something odd about his presence that was a disruption in the natural order, and she was determined to figure out what it was.

But then the Red Knight came over for their weekly chess date, and the gravekeeper promptly forgot the matter over a cup of earl grey tea and a pleasant afternoon of gaming and strategy.

So life, in the little village, carried on.  The handywoman continued work on an afghan, having decided it would be a welcome blanket for the town's newest citizen.  In the farm adjacent to the jeweler's, a cheerful homemaker made a note to herself to pick up some extra cinnamon from market, to bake an apple pie for her new neighbor.  On the other side of town, a grey-scaled kobold brooded in a small cabin whose front lawn was littered with angrily-scrawled signs reading "Keep out!  No visitors!  Violators will be eaten!" and the word "Gnomes" with a red line crossing it out.  And in the largest, fanciest house of all, which was really just a large hall piled with gold, the town mayor--a large but not unusually vast platinum dragon--consulted with a bespectacled dwarf and a glowing robotic cube over the itinerary for the next town meeting.

In short, everything was in its place, proceeding perfectly according to plan.


	19. Past Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz is grounded. Lup sees her brother. Davenport gets the welcome wagon.

"Hey, Krav."  Taako's voice cut through the roar in Kravitz's thoughts.  He looked up, surprised to see his boyfriend standing in the doorway of his office.

"Taako?"  He stood.  "You're--I thought you were with Merle?"

"Hitched a ride with Lup," he said, striding in with his usual confidence.  He took a look around the office.  "You're not givin' Taako the brush-off that easily."

Kravitz winced.  "I didn't mean--I just thought--"

"Babe."  Taako sat down on the edge of Kravitz's paper-strewn desk.  "I get it.  That was kind of a bomb dropped right in your lap."  He reached over and lifted Kravitz's chin with his fingertips.  "But you can talk to me, okay?"

Kravitz sighed.  The realization that Ruin could somehow _undo_ an emissary had struck him hard, left him cold and reeling in the faux-Starblaster.  He'd tried to swallow down his fear--there was too much at stake for him to give in to panic--but it still sat in the back of his brain, a cold and enormous weight.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Got nuthin' to be sorry about," said Taako.

Kravitz took Taako's hand in his own.  He rubbed his boyfriend's soft fingers, relishing the warmth of them, the _realness_ of them.  "You know I love you, Taako," he said.

Taako smiled.  It was such a beautiful smile.  "Of course, babe.  I love you, too."

Kravitz nodded.  "It's…hard to explain my relationship with the Raven Queen," he said.  "I serve her, she's my employer, of course.  But it's…so much more than that.  So much deeper."  He looked away, trying to get his thoughts in order.  His gaze landed on Barry's keyscythe, which was propped up against the wall of their joint office.  Ironic, he supposed. 

"Listen, Krav," said Taako.  "You don't have to worry about that.  I'm not jealous of, like, your own goddess.  How can I be jealous when she's taking care of three people I love the most in the world?" 

Taako must have realized his error the moment he spoke, because he winced and added, "Well, she _was_.  But we'll get her back, babe.  I promise."

Kravitz shook his head.  "I know, I know we're all trying to figure this out," he said.  "But it's…"  Fear pushed at the back of his skull.  "You have to understand.  Everything I am, I owe to the Raven Queen.  My role, my body, my--my continued existence as an independent soul…all of it was given to me by her."  He closed his eyes, felt his bones seizing up.  "If I were to stop being an emissary…Taako, I'll be gone."

Taako fell still.  His warm fingers stiffened, grew cold as the blood retreated from them.  Krav watched a stream of emotions pass over his lover's features: shock, confusion, fear. 

For all that he was a Reaper--or perhaps because of that--they had talked very little about death.  They had both assumed that it was Kravitz who would have to brace himself for Taako's eventual demise, not the reverse.  What waited beyond death for Taako--a little island of his own, or a contract as a new Reaper, or even a peaceful passage into the Astral Sea--was a topic they'd seen no need to broach just yet.  And despite the obvious danger of Kravitz's job, he'd always been assured that no matter how badly his construct body might be damaged, the Raven Queen could always restore him. 

But not anymore. 

Taako took a deep breath. 

"I'm sorry," said Kravitz.  "I guess that was a bomb dropped in your lap, this time--"

Taako kissed him.

It was a desperate, full-body kiss, Taako's long arms wrapping around him and gripping his shoulders as if Kravitz was falling away from him right then.  Kravitz returned the embrace, wishing he could hold onto Taako forever, wishing--he wished so many things, and he felt powerless to obtain them.  So he sank into the moment, trying to forget his worries, forget his missing Queen and the impending apocalypse, so he could simply enjoy being with his boyfriend.

But all his fears and longings crouched at the back of his head, waiting.

Taako reached up, running his fingers through Kravitz's dark dreads.  "Listen.  It's gonna be okay.  I mean, not just getting your Bird Mom back, but…look, we just gotta make sure you don't get anywhere near that thing, right?"

Kravitz frowned.  He remembered it soaring past him in the Green Fields.  It had been at the horizon and then right on top of them.  It moved so fast.  He'd been so close to it.  "Even with teleportation, I fear it could get the drop on me…"

"No biggie!"  Taako's tone was almost shockingly light.  "I mean, your work is keeping you here anyway, and it's stuck on the ol' PMP, right?  And as far as we can tell, it can't exactly jump planes on its own.  I mean, it sucks, but Lup can bring me around whenever."

Kravitz blinked, as he grasped what Taako was saying.  "So I should just stay here?  And leave you to face Ruin alone?  Taako, I can't--"

"Hey."  He tucked his finger beneath Kravitz's chin.  "Cha'boy's got this.  Me an' the rest of the fam, we're gonna take this fucker down.  And you don't have to worry about a thing."

He sighed.  "I…suppose that makes sense.  It just feels…"  Something squeezed in his chest, as if the heart that he knew his construct body didn't contain was nonetheless breaking.  He was a practical person; despite Taako's optimism, Kravitz couldn't help but consider the very real possibility that they could fail.  The world might still end, despite their best intentions.  And there was a very real part of him that wanted to be standing at Taako's side, at the very end.

"I don't know," he finished.  "It feels like I'm abandoning you."

Taako leaned against him, placed his fingers on Kravitz's chest, right where his heart ought to be, if he were alive.  Gods, in this moment, how he wished he were alive.

"I'm right here, babe," he said.  "Always." 

Kravitz looked into Taako's bright eyes, and believed him.

 

#

 

Taako left the office a little while later.  As soon as the door shut behind him, his face sagged and his whole bearing shifted, as if grief suddenly weighed on him.

"Well?" Lup asked, senses tuned immediately to her brother's shifting mood.  "What's up?"

"You can take me back," he said, not looking her in the eyes.

"Taako."  She touched his arm, getting his attention.  "I think we need a Twin Talk."

He gave her a cocky half-smile, but she could tell it was forced.  "You know I don't kiss and tell."

She raised an eyebrow.  "Not about that," she said.  "But you've been acting off for a while now.  And seeing as it's the end of the world again, I think it's safe to say it's not the best time to be bottling shit up."

Taako sighed, and his shoulders slumped a little more as the breath left him.  But he nodded, just a little, and followed her down the hallway to an empty side office, which Lup and Barry had converted into a laboratory.

Taako sat down on the edge of the work table, which was covered in candles and books and a half-finished magic circle drawn in chalk.  Lup sat beside him, curling her fingers with his, and waited.

Lup and Taako had always tried to be honest with each other.  It didn't always work; Lup didn't like showing weakness, and Taako didn't like admitting when he was scared.  And, for most of their youth, they'd definitely hid all that shit from anyone who wasn't the two of them. 

But after 47 cycles of the apocalypse, when she'd finally confessed her love to Barry and been met with his love and trust, she'd stopped holding anything back.  She never knew if one of her weird, beautiful family would be killed the next day.  If she was scared, if she was upset, if she just wanted to tell someone she fucking loved and appreciated them, she just said it.

It had taken 47 cycles for her to figure that out.  And Taako had ragged on her about it ever since.  But now the world was ending again, and Taako was closing himself off.  Lup wasn't going to let that stand.

She gave him a few minutes to gather his thoughts.  He still wasn't looking at her when he said, finally, "When you were, um, in the umbrella, how much of me did you see?"

Her fingers tightened at the mention of the umbrella.  "I could see your face," she said, "sometimes.  I was kind of at a weird angle, and it wasn't so much seeing with my eyes but like—"

"I mean, did you see how I _was?"_

Lup chewed on his words.  "You mean, like, how you were without your memories?"

He nodded.  "Yeah," he said, and his voice was hoarse.  "Gods, this feels so shitty, talking about this when my boyfriend is scared he might beef it—"

"Taako."  Lup kept her voice firm.  "Kravitz is leaning on you, but you can still lean on me, okay?"  She put her free hand on top of their clasped fingers.  "Talk to me.  Please."

He picked up a spare candle, black and etched with runes, and turned it idly in his other hand.  "I think…Lup, I don't think I was a good person."

Lup stared at him.  "Taako, that's not—you were—"

"Look me in the eyes, Lup."  He turned to face her then, and there was an intense gleam in his own eyes, a look that even she rarely saw.  It was that look he reserved when he was done pretending not to care, and was about to roll up his sleeves and kick someone's ass with a hearty _abra-ca-fuck-you_.  "Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth, Lup.  Did I seem like the same Taako to you?"

She swallowed.  A sour feeling settled in her gut.  "No," she said, because she owed her brother her honesty.  "You seemed…less yourself.  Rougher, somehow.  Not like, uncouth.  But more like one of Magnus's ducks, when it's only half done.  Only a little duck-shaped, and covered with bits of bark, and if you grab it wrong, you come away with splinters."  She looked at the palm of her hand.  She'd still loved him, even so.  She'd still recognized his core Taako-ness.  But she'd realized pretty quickly that something had been wrong, something was missing.  The Taako who'd found her in Wave Echo Cave carried scars she couldn't name.

Taako set the candle down.  "Lucretia stole the best part of me," he said.  "And yeah, like…there are people out there who can't stand me because I'm fucking amazing.  I'm like, one of the most powerful wizards on this world and the biggest brand name in the entire fuckin' planar system, and you don't get that without running into petty little assholes and gossips and people with no fuckin' taste.  But…"  His ears sagged, just a little.  "There are people out there who hate me because I was an asshole, and I can't help but think, you know…fair play.  I deserve that."

"Well, okay…so you did kinda have your asshole dial turned up a bit," she said, gently nudging him in the ribs.  "Guess you just had to be asshole enough for two of us."  She was rewarded with a tiny smile, but it didn't last. 

Taako looked at their clasped hands, carefully not meeting her eyes.  "Maybe.  But I look at you and Barry and Kravitz," he said, "and I think…I don't deserve this.  I don't deserve you.  I was an asshole and my fuckin' family saw me like that.  And I keep wondering when the other shoe's gonna fuckin' drop.  Like you're all as secretly disappointed in me as Davenport was."  He winced.  "Is, I guess."

Suddenly he rolled his shoulders, as if shrugging the whole pile of self-pity off of himself; his braid swung over his shoulder to his back.  "Gods," he said, "it's like Auntie getting sick all over again."

A cold feeling sank into Lup's gut.  Her instinct was to tell him not to think like that, but he _was_ thinking like that, and she couldn't blame him.  She understood. 

It had been so fucking miserable, being kicked around from relative to relative.  Feeling unwanted and useless and a burden.  Auntie's cottage had been a safe haven, the first stable home they'd ever known.  They'd spent a blissful two years under Auntie's roof, learning how to cook, listening to her tell stories about her wild younger days.  She had a dry, reserved smile that suggested she was always holding a little secret to herself, something that amused her but she would never tell a soul about.

And then she'd gotten sick.  Really sick.  She'd ended up in the hospital, and though she tried to reassure Lup and Taako that she'd be fine, that this was only a minor setback and they'd all go home again soon, they couldn't help but feel that they were watching their world come apart in slow motion.

"It's because of us," Taako said one night, when they lay side by side in their shared bed. 

"Don't say that," she'd said.

"But it's true.  We stayed here too long.  It was gonna happen eventually."

She opened her mouth, closed it again.  She couldn't refute him.  She felt the same way.

"We should leave," he said.  The words were a whisper in the dark, a secret admission for her ears only.  "She'll be better off without us."

She'd looked at her brother's bright, teary eyes, and nodded.

They left that night, and didn't look back.

Their Auntie had survived.  But the twins had stayed away, both unwilling to risk settling in again, both certain that their presence was bad luck for anyone they cared about besides each other.  By the time Lup looked back and realized they'd shortchanged themselves of the one family they had, it was a few weeks before the Starblaster mission.  She'd found herself caught between the desire to visit their Auntie as a successful arcanist and soon-to-be interplanar explorer, and the realization that they'd effectively abandoned a dying relative because of some fucked-up notion of guilt.  And suddenly Lup wondered if their aunt would even want anything to do with them.

So she didn't go.  And then the world ended. 

And here was Taako again, facing the end of the world and the prospect of someone he loved truly dying.  And the scars on his soul were showing.  Telling him to run before he had to lose again.  Telling him it was somehow his fault that they were in danger, because he didn't deserve anyone caring about him.

Lup looked at her brother's face, tracing the path of his thoughts as clearly as a map she'd been reading all her life.

She curved her fingers along the side of his face.  "It's not your fault, Taako," she said.  "Kravitz isn't in danger because of you."

He sighed.  "You're right," he said.  "I'm gonna make sure of that.  And you gotta help me out, Lulu.  I don't want him tryin' ta come back to the Prime because of some, like, weird old idea of chivalry.  I love the guy, and it's nice to have him sweep me off my feet once in a while, but now's not a good time for that.  And I'm--"  He broke off, shook his head.  "Just make sure he stays here."

Lup could hear the words Taako didn't say.  _And I'm not worth it._   She closed her eyes, and wished she could just knock some sense into her brother, make him see how much he was loved and how much he deserved that love.  He wasn't the same pained, detached person who had found her in Wave Echo Cave, the one who hid his feelings behind a mask of self-serving assholery.

Well.  It was the end of the world, a bad time for bottling shit up.  She put an arm around him and drew him close, feeling his warmth, feeling the soft comfort of all his familiar curves and angles.  "Yeah, I'll keep him safe for you," she said.  "But just…Taako, I love you.  And Kravitz loves you, and Barry, too.  We all care about you so fucking much.  Don't forget that, okay?"

Taako looked at her for a long time in silence.  Then he nodded, like he didn't quite believe her but was going to make an effort. 

"Okay," he said.  "Okay."

 

#

 

The stars were all wrong. 

That was one of the first things Davenport checked on his first night in the strange town he'd found himself in.  For one thing, the heavens weren't actually falling apart here:  the stars glimmered like perfectly normal stars, the moon wasn't turning red, and freak celestial anomalies weren't spreading across the sky like bruises.

For another thing, the stars were arranged in a pattern he'd never seen anywhere on Faerun.  So they were useless in helping him figure out where he _was._

For a third thing, there was only one moon.  Wherever the moon base was, it wasn't here.

He added this to the growing list of things that weren't quite right.  First and foremost on that list, he was in a perfect little village that contained every missing god of Faerun.  And none of them remembered they were gods.

"Goodness," said Garl, from the other side of the kitchen, "you're quite the industrious one, aren't you?  Haven't even had breakfast, and you're already nose-deep in your work."

Davenport looked up from his notebook and stared at his god.  Or the person who used to be his god.  From all appearances, Garl was a perfectly mortal gnome: his eyes no longer glimmered like deep-cut jewels, and his skin no longer shimmered faintly golden.  Right now, he was on breakfast duty, chopping up peppers and mushrooms for omelettes.  In the corner, Flandal Steelskin, once the gnomish god of metalworking, fed wood into the big iron stove.

"There's a lot of information I need to compile," said Davenport.  "For my, uh, experiments."

Garl glanced at him over his sholder.  "Well, I hope you're not so busy that you can't get outside," he said.  "Was thinking of showing you around town, introducing you to everyone."

_That's fine,_ he thought.  He wrote a few more lines in his notebook before he realized that Garl was still looking at him, awaiting an answer.  Because Garl couldn't hear his thoughts anymore.  Their connection was severed.

The quill snapped in Davenport's hands.  He took a deep breath to steady himself, and nodded.  "That's fine," he said out loud.

"Excellent!" said Garl.  "We can head out after breakfast."

"If you're going out," said Flandal, "do pick up a leg of lamb.  Baervan's going to be making a stew tonight."

"Will do!  Davenport, be a good lad and don't let me forget, okay?"  He grabbed another green pepper and began dicing it.

Davenport winced, and ran his fingers through his hair.  "…All right," he said.

None of this made sense.  He tossed aside the broken quill and grabbed another one.  He let the tip hover over the page, unsure where even to begin.  Garl might have forgotten he was a god, but he still seemed to be _him._   How much did he actually remember?

"Does…Stonehollow mean anything to you?" he heard himself asking.

The steady chop of Garl's knife against the cutting board didn't slow.  "Is that a place?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think…yeah."

Garl shrugged.  "Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid." 

There was a knock on the front door.  Footsteps thumped across the living room.  And then Gaerdal, once the gnomish god of combat and the Shield of the Golden Hills, called in his rough voice, "Davenport?  You have a visitor."

That was unexpected.  He picked up his notebook and went to the living room.  In the front door stood a middle-aged halfling woman with a big smile on her face and a steaming apple pie in her hands.  Somehow, her smile grew even warmer and wider when she saw him.

"Hello, there!" she said sweetly.  "I'm Cyrrollalee, your neighbor from next door."  She held out the pie.  "And this is for you.  As a little welcome to the neighborhood!"

Davenport stared at her.  "Cyrrollalee?  But you're…the goddess…"

She chuckled.  "Oh, aren't you a sweetie!" she said, waving away his words as if they were nothing more than an excessive compliment.  "No, I'm just an old woman who likes looking after her community." 

"No," said Davenport, "you're the halfling goddess of hospitality and friendship!  I was in your temple.  You were hiding there, but Ruin took you away.  The giant wyrm?  Do you remember any of that?"

Cyrrollalee's smile faded.  Her brow furrowed in puzzlement.  "I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure I understand--"

"Are you hearing static?" he tried.  "When I say you're a goddess, are you hearing static?"

"Static?"  She looked down at the pie and back at Davenport again.  "No, I just…I'm sorry, dear, I don't recall ever living in a temple.  And certainly, no one's ever called me a goddess…"

"Well," said Garl, slipping smoothly into the conversation, "I've always said that your scones are divine!"  He put one hand gently on Davenport's shoulder and pulled him a step back, flashing a grin at Cyrrollalee as he did so.  "My apologies, Davenport's still a little shaken up by his arrival.  You know how it is.  He's a little intense, but he's a good egg."

Cyrrollalee relaxed, and returned a small smile.  "Well, dear," she said to Davenport, "don't you worry about a thing.  You'll find your feet soon enough, I'm sure."  She pushed the pie into his hands.

"Thank you," he said automatically.  The smell of apples and cinnamon wafted up to his nose.  It did smell wonderful.

And then Garl's previous words caught up to him.  "Wait--you, uh, bake scones?"  He looked back and forth between the two of them. 

"Of course!  Her blueberry and ginger scones are…"  Garl made a chef-kiss gesture.  "Perfection!  You need to try them sometime, Davenport.  Never would have thought of that flavor combination myself, but it just _works."_

"Oh, you!"  Cyrrollalee blushed.  "Are you coming to the hoedown next week, Garl?  We'll be hosting this time."

"I wouldn't miss it for all the gold in those mountains," said Garl.

"And Davenport?  Are you coming too?" 

"Oh-ho, you can be certain I'll be bringing him along!"  Garl draped an arm over Davenport's shoulders.  "Even if I have to personally drag him away from his work.  Oh, by the way, do tell Yondalla that I've finished re-setting that necklace of hers, and she's welcome to pick it up at the shop any time."

"Of course, dear."  She said her good-byes, gave one more twinkle-eyed smile to Davenport, and left.

He stood staring at the closed door, mouth agape. 

"Well," said Garl, into the silence that followed.  "That happened.  Are you sure you're all right?"  The look he gave Davenport was thoughtful, and maybe a little concerned.

He shook his head.  "It just doesn't make any sense," he murmured.  "It's like…puzzle pieces, but I don't know what the final image is supposed to be."

Garl shrugged breezily.  "Oh, but that's the best part about puzzles!  When you don't know what you're looking at, but you think this piece may go with that piece, and you find the edges and keep working until it all comes together!"

"Yes, but--!  I mean, it's like someone took five separate puzzles and threw all their pieces together, and half the pieces may be missing and…I don't know, I'm rambling."  He rubbed his forehead.

"…Maybe what you're working with isn't a puzzle at all," said Garl.  He clapped Davenport on the shoulder.  "Anyway, let's get some breakfast into you.  You'll feel better soon, I'm sure."  And he headed back into the kitchen, as if nothing at all were the matter.  Oblivious to Davenport's confusion and the growing fear in his gut. 

Because he was no longer a god, and Davenport was a stranger to him.


	20. Going It Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucretia edits her work. Angus follows a lead. Merle goes out dancing.

_Davenport was…_

Lucretia stared at the line of text across her paper.  Each of her hands clutched a feather quill from Jeff Angel, each one a divine artifact of JeffAndrew himself.  And yet they both seemed so small and fragile compared to the enormity of her task.

_Davenport was…_

_Davenport was ~~unharmed~~_

_Davenport was ~~back on his ship~~_

_Davenport was ~~safe~~_

"It won't work," she said out loud.  She was pushing against the limits of the quills' power, to no avail.  And she knew that.

_Davenport was gone._  

The statement stayed, ink sinking into parchment with the weight of truth.  And she couldn't undo it; too much had happened, too many consequences were branching out from that one terrible moment.  Perhaps, if she were Istus or even JeffAndrew, she might undo it, toss out the whole draft and restructure the plot so he never reached that crucial point in the first place.  But not as Lucretia.  Not even as Lucretia Andrew.

Lup had confirmed he was alive.  There was that small consolation.  He was neither dead nor dying.

Still.  He was gone.

A knock sounded at her door.  "Madame Director?"  Avi poked his head in. 

She cleared her throat.  "What is it, Avi?"

He looked around her office, his brow furrowed.  "You've, uh, done some redecorating?"

She followed his gaze.  Her walls were pinned with half-finished drafts, fragments of ideas and lists of possible article topics.  Lines of index cards laid out the paths her family was taking; pushpins and colored inks marked the places where the world was falling apart more drastically, and would require more reinforcement.

"Yes," she deadpanned.  "Considering the world is about to pop off, I decided to go wild.  What can I do for you, Avi?"

He cleared his throat.  "I, uh, just wanted to let you know we're rerouting to avoid the storm that's still parked over Neverwinter."

His words pulled her from the abstract and into the present moment.  "And how's the city, uh, looking?"  She checked her Stone of Farspeech, and was surprised to find she'd missed several messages.  Had she been that deep into her work? 

"Honestly, ma'am, we can't even see it through the cloud cover," he said.  "I've never seen a storm this persistent."

She wondered if anyone else at the Jeff Report had thought to write an article on how nice the weather in Neverwinter was.  Surely they must have.  They were hidden in a basement in Neverwinter; flooding in the city would threaten their operations.  And yet the storm was still there.  Had they tried to push it back, and failed?  She would need to call Jeff Jeffins to check in.  She should also probably call Lord Sterling.  How long since she'd talked to either of them? 

"Ma'am, meaning no disrespect," said Avi, "but are you all right in here?  I could, uh, send someone in to assist--"

"No, everything's fine, Avi.  Other than the world being on the brink of the apocalypse, which I am trying very hard to stop."

Avi gave her a nervous smile.  "Well, we'd all like to stop the apocalypse," he said.  "But you haven't given us any orders in a few days, and I think--well, you do still have the rest of the Bureau to help…"

She looked down at the bright white quills in her hands, at her piles of article drafts and notes.  The next article on her list was a rumination on Lup and Barry's musical talents.  Her eyes landed on the word "violin," and memories sparked in her, of the battered, well-loved violin that Lup had preserved from the Conservatory and carried with her through 52 more cycles.  She could write a few thousand words just on that violin alone.  "Unfortunately, this is something only I can do, Avi," she said.  "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to need some quiet time.  I'm not to be disturbed for anything short of the base catching on fire.  You're dismissed."

Avi opened his mouth, clearly about to protest, but changed his mind.  "Of course, ma'am," he said.  He shut the door behind him, and Lucretia was alone once more.

She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began scribbling a draft about Lup's violin.  In the shuffle and ebb of papers on her desk, her Stone of Farspeech was quietly buried.

 

#

 

Angus looked over the books and papers that lay scattered on Hurley's desk, and made his decision.

Hurley still wasn't back yet; working together, they had traced the origin of the Militia's new weapons supplier, and she was off trying to get an address without raising Captain Valen's suspicions.  And Roswell was out helping the Militia contain the riots by giving a birds-eye view of various trouble spots around the city.

But Angus had just discovered the next clue in his trail, and he didn't have time to wait. 

It had been two days already since he'd escaped the cult's hideout, since Captain Davenport had disappeared.  The overgrowth was getting worse every day, and on top of that, the temperature was fluctuating wildly.  Yesterday there'd been a freak snowstorm in the middle of a searing summer afternoon.  Clocks and compasses had become unreliable, and the once-majestic waterfalls that roared just outside the city had slowed to a trickle and were flowing backwards.

He grabbed a spare piece of paper and wrote a brief message to Hurley, then threw an enchantment over the paper to conceal the message unless Hurley herself touched it. 

Or, he tried to enchant it.  The spell spiked and sputtered, and the piece of paper folded itself into an origami swan that cried "Hurl!  Hurl!"  He frowned and flicked his wand again, concentrating as hard as he could.  The paper flattened out, and the spell went off properly this time.

He scooped a pair of books and his wand into his knapsack, and headed for the belltower at the top of the Militia headquarters.  There was one officer posted there, on call to ring the bell if needed.  But it was quick spellwork for Angus to conceal himself from view.  He climbed up on the stone balustrade, gripped the knapsack in his hands, took a deep breath, and returned to his true form.

Keeping up an Invisibility spell while polymorphing back into dragon-shape wasn't the easiest thing to do.  But he did it, holding the spell in place like a blanket over his shoulders while his little human boy shape gave way to wings and claws and a long, shining silver tail.  He kept his knapsack gripped in his front talons, and launched himself into the skies over Goldcliff.

Smoke rose from several spots around the city.  He wove between the plumes, trying to stay focused on his task, even as his enhanced vision clearly showed him the cracked streets, the destroyed stalls in the central market, the spangles of light where shattered glass littered the cobblestones.  He had to trust Hurley to do what she could.  But he needed to get to Rockport as soon as possible.

He wondered if he should have included a p.s. in the note, telling her that he was actually a dragon.  But it was irrelevant to the situation, and besides, it was something he'd want to say in person.

Really, there were a lot of people he should say it to in person.

He had this fear, sometimes, that one day he'd need to switch to dragon form in an emergency, and he'd hesitate in front of his family, and that hesitation would cost them.  Logically, it was far safer to tell them at a time when it didn't matter.  But every time he'd been with them at a family dinner or a games night, it never seemed like the right time.

And lately, well…there was just so much _else_ to worry about.

He'd tell them soon.  He promised himself that.  Before the end of the world, he'd tell them.

Rockport was coming into sight over the horizon.  The once-bustling center of industry was a mess of greenery.  Hot, humid air sat like a bubble over the urban rainforest.  Its famous train station was hidden beneath a canopy of enormous trees, and the tracks themselves were tangled with thick, creeping vines.  He fell into a circling pattern, trying to spot the city council building.  He found it near the center of the city, its roof broken by several large trees whose roots spread outward and wrapped around its stone walls. 

He dove through a gap in the canopy and landed on a low, wide branch, claws digging in and finding purchase easily in the rough bark.  He allowed himself a few moments to rest, scanning the area for people and planning his next move.  But the only movement he spotted were birds and lizards.  The place was deserted.

Unfortunately, the person he needed was part of the Rockport City Council, who had all disappeared into the rainforest wilds.  But Master Swordsmith Buiron Steelheart had no peer when it came to sword-craft.  And Angus needed him to craft a weapon greater than the God-Sword.

Gripping his knapsack in his jaws, he climbed down the trunk of the tree into the ruins of the City Council building.  There was no sign of the council inside.  But there was a big gaping hole in the back wall, opening out into the thick, misty interior of the rainforest.  Birdsong and the chitter of insects drifted in on the heavy air.

Angus shifted back into the form of a human boy, shifted his knapsack onto his back, and walked out into the green.

 

#

 

"Angus?"  Hurley stepped into her office, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.  His knapsack was gone.  She frowned.  Where had he run off to that was so urgent he couldn't wait for her return?  Was there an emergency somewhere that she didn't know about yet?

She scanned her desk for a note, and found a blank piece of paper that looked like it had been elaborately folded and then unfolded.  She picked it up.  Letters began to form.

_Officer Hurley,_

_Gone to Rockport to follow a lead.  Nothing will matter unless we can stop the God-Sword.  Will keep in touch.  Destroy this letter._

_Angus McDonald_

 

The God-Sword?  Since when had he started calling it that?  And Rockport was the last place that he should be headed, and he knew that.  None of the train lines into the city worked anymore.

She folded the note in her pocket.  She'd need to find a good time to throw it into one of the building's furnaces.  As a general rule, she kept no source of fire in her office now that she was made of wood.

And as soon as that was done, she would need to head over to the address of this supposed sword-merchant who'd sold the city its new supply of—

As if all her vitality drained out of her at once, Hurley sank to her knees with a gasp.  The flowers that had grown so wildly on all her limbs wilted and dropped all at once.  She sat on the floor, dizzy and exhausted, trying to gasp with lungs she no longer had.

She closed her eyes.  Gathering her dwindling chi, she focused all of it into her legs.  With a burst of strength, she forced herself to her feet and staggered to her office window.

She knew what she was going to see before she saw it.  But it still made her whole body feel cold.  The overgrowth had finally stopped.

And the great cherry tree at the heart of Goldcliff—her home, her life—was starting to die.

 

#

 

Merle woke to the sound of birds singing and sunlight streaming through the slatted inn windows.  He lay quiet for a few minutes, just enjoying the moment, trying not to think of what disasters he'd be facing today.  More flooding, or a freak snowstorm?  Maybe an infestation of capybaras?  Were capybaras a thing in Faerun?

He sat up and stretched, his old bones cracking.  Said a quick prayer to Pan, wherever he was.  Crossed the room and opened the window blinds.  And nearly had a heart attack.

The maple tree outside his window was dying.  Half its leaves were gone, and the scant remainder were turning brown. 

The grassy lawn outside the inn was similarly drained of life.  He turned to grab his soulwood arm from its pot, and stopped, mouth hanging open.  The soulwood arm looked dried out, like a bonsai tree gone too long without watering.  He knew, without even touching it, that whatever residual Pan power had been in that thing was gone now.  

Gingerly, he strapped it on.  It still moved, but stiffly now, the joints cracking with a noise that concerned him.  And it felt numb, too.

He glanced out the window.  This wasn't nature thrown wildly off its cycle.  This was nature dying.

He picked up the Staff of Seasons.  It still shimmered with divine light; whatever Istus and Pan had done to it, at least its power was withstanding whatever was going on outside.  He tapped it against his soulwood arm.  The wood became limber again, and a few leaves tentatively poked themselves out.  But he got the feeling this was only a temporary fix.

He sighed, put on his sandals, and headed down to the inn's common room.

Unsurprisingly, a small crowd was already gathered down there, standing by the open front door or peering out the windows.  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.  Mookie had his nose pressed to a windowpane; Mavis was curled up on the couch, hands clasped together, head tilted forward in prayer.

"Well?" he asked Taako, who must've returned from his visit to the Astral Plane sometime when Merle was asleep.

Taako frowned.  "Well, we're boned," he said.  "This is, like, the opposite problem than what we've been dealing with."

Branda tossed back a mug of cider and wiped her mouth with a sleeve.  "Any ideas, Merle?  This is your domain, buddy.  Got any, uh, amazing world-saving tricks up your sleeve?"

Merle shook his head.  His one 'world-saving trick' was currently useless anyway, as long as he couldn't figure out a way to Parley with Ruin.  So he just held up the Staff of Seasons instead.  "I'll see what all I can do with this," he said.  "Not holdin' out hope for much, though.  Just a divine band-aid."  Even as he said this, the flowers in the window boxes begin to droop.

Maybe he could try Parley with the leader of that weird cult Angus was tracking?  Could he do that?  Of course, he'd need to reach out to Angus to get a name or something, so he knew who to target.  And Angus might catch onto him and refuse to help, like the little goody two-shoes he was. 

"By Hanseath," Branda growled suddenly.  "Even with the Hunger, we could at least punch it in the face.  But this?"  She raised her mug to indicate the entire world outside the inn door.  "Just a slow fading off into nothing?  Worst way for the world to go out, if you ask me."

"Daddy's gonna fix it!" said Mookie suddenly, leaping off the window sill.  "He's gonna fix everything, you'll see!"

He looked down at the staff in his hands.  He looked at his son, eyes shining with undimmed hope.  And at Mavis, still deep in prayer, her fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.  One by one, he took in the faces of the other inn guests, the barmaid and the innkeeper.  They all showed a mix of fear and bleak numbness, as if what lingering hopes they'd been holding onto were gone.

Well.  If all he had was a band-aid, he was gonna band-aid the shit out of this world.  If he was gonna go out, he was gonna go out dancing.

"All right, kids," he said, hefting the Staff of Seasons.  He tapped the flower box, and the flowers there--pansies and violets--sprang back to life.  "Come on, let's do this."  And he stepped out into the dying world, trailing grass and flowers as he went.


	21. Asking for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davenport gets a leg up. Kravitz delegates. Magnus responds to a friend request.

"So what about the war?" asked Davenport, taking notes as he and Garl walked to market.  "Tell me what you remember about that.  The war that…that everyone here fought in."

"Oh, that one," said Garl, waving away the question.  "You know, it was…it was a bad time."

"Who were you fighting?"

Garl frowned, clearly puzzling over the answer.  "Well, our enemy.  Who else do you fight in a war?"

"And who was your enemy?" he persisted.  "An evil god?  A plane that eats other planes?  A…a giant wyrm, perhaps?  Do you remember any details?"

Garl barked a laugh.  "Ha!  You are full of questions, aren't you?"  He shrugged.  "It doesn't matter.  All that matters is, we lost, and now we're here.  A nice place to retire after a war, don't you think?"  He spread his arms wide, as if showing off the whole village to Davenport.

He looked around.  He had to admit, it was a very lovely village, with well-built houses and an open-air town hall and gardens and any sort of shop you could want.  The weather was perfect, everyone seemed cheerful, and the marketplace was bustling in a cobblestone plaza built around an impressive bronze fountain.

"And where is here, exactly?" he tried.  "Do you know where in Faerun we are?"

"Eh?"  Garl tugged on the ends of his coppery mustache.  "Does it matter?  It's just nice, that's all I care about."

Davenport let the matter drop, for now.  He scratched a few more notes into his notebook with a rough charcoal pencil, listing the amenities of the self-sustaining village.  The only thing the place lacked were temples or shrines of any kind.  Which, he supposed, made sense.  Who would the gods worship, anyway?

They wandered through the market, Garl pausing at every booth to introduce Davenport.  Religious studies had never been his area of expertise, so he didn't recognize most of the names.  But he did spot Pan at a booth selling wine, and he recognized the name Yondalla when he was introduced to a halfling woman running a booth with some of the nicest produce he'd ever seen.

He was a little shocked to see Garagos, god of war and mayhem, assisting at the butcher's shop, wielding his scimitars with a wild glee.  "You sure you just want the leg?" he asked Garl, pointing to the other cuts on display.  "You just point me in the right direction, man, and I will lay _waste_ to any beast you wanna eat.  Best cuts in town, guaranteed!"

Garl smiled affably.  "I'm quite sure just the leg will do, thanks."

Garagos sagged, visibly disappointed that he wouldn't get to hack up any more meat.  "All right, man," he said.  "But will you sign my petition?  Tryin' to start a sports league."  He pointed his scimitar, still dripping with bloody meat juice, at a clipboard hanging by the till.

"That sounds delightful!" said Garl, putting his name to paper.  "We could always use some more entertainment around here."

The god of mayhem grinned.  "That's what I'm saying!  Whoooo!"  And he flexed.  "Let's get some competition up in here!  See who's man enough to go up against these guns!"

Garl chuckled.  But Davenport was only too happy to exit the butcher shop as soon as possible, even if Garl did end up pawning the wrapped leg of lamb off on him to carry.

He took Davenport by the elbow and grimmed.  "One more booth—my favorite one!"  And he tugged him along to a booth whose display shelves were lined with all sorts of ingenious little devices: wind-up toys, music boxes, astrolabes of various sizes and an impressive assortment of pocket watches.  A selection of fine cutlery gleamed in a display box.

"Davenport, this is Gond, and he is the cleverest craftsman in town," said Garl.  "Barring me, of course."

The tall, broad-shouldered man laughed good-naturedly.  "That is still up for debate," he said.  "But you are always welcome to scope out the competition."

"You can be sure I will," said Garl, eyes twinkling.  "If I should ever find any."

The way the two bantered, Davenport guessed this was a typical conversation.  He didn't recognize Gond's name, but he could assume this was another god of crafting.  He picked up a music box and opened it.  The inner workings were finely made, and the music drifting up was clear and delicate.  He held it up to his ear.

"Got anything new today?" asked Garl.

"Well, I've been working on a new method for perpetual motion, and I've been trying it out on this…"  He held up a wind-up toy soldier for Garl to admire.

"Perpetual motion, eh?  I've got a—"

" _Garl Glittergold."_

The raspy voice cut through their conversation.  Davenport knew that voice.  He put the music box down, and turned to look straight at Kurtulmak.

The kobold glared at Garl through narrowed eyes.  Garl raised an eyebrow.  "Kurtulmak," he said coldly.  Turning back to Gond, he continued as if his nemesis weren't there.  "As I was saying, the perpetual motion gears—"

"Whatever he is aiming to buy, I will buy it instead!" snapped Kurtulmak.  "And I'll pay you twice what he's offering for it!"

Now both Garl's eyebrows were raised.  Gond looked between them, brow furrowing, clearly not wanting to be caught in the middle of whatever was happening.

"In that case, my dear Gond," said Garl with deceptive lightness, "I am interested in buying your most expensive product."

Kurtulmak took a moment to realize what had just happened.  He threw up his clawed hands.  "Curse you, Garl Glittergold!  You'll pay for your trickery!"

"Stop making it so damn easy," he muttered.  "Anyway, we're done here.  Let's go, Davenport."

At the mention of his name, Kurtulmak's gaze snapped to him, as if noticing him for the first time.  Davenport took a step back without thinking.  Kurtulmak was unusually tall for a Kobold, at least a head taller than him, and his dark claws looked razor-sharp.

"So, Garl Glittergold," he said, "you have a new lackey."

Garl's demeanor changed.  He stepped between the two of them, scowling, drawing himself up to his full height.  "Leave him alone, Kurtulmak," he said, his voice dangerously low.  "He's got nothing to do with this."  

Kurtulmak tilted his head, his gaze locked on Davenport in cold regard.

Garl grabbed Davenport by the upper arm and pulled him away from the booth.  "Don't even think about it," he growled. 

Davenport glanced over his shoulder at the kobold, who watched their departure with interest.  Garl didn't look back, didn't say anything, didn't let go of his arm.

"So," he said, cautiously breaking Garl's frigid silence, "I take it you two don't get along?"

Garl said nothing.

"I, uh, don't suppose you remember how this, uh…feud started?"

Garl finally looked at him, both eyebrows raised, as if the question bewildered him.  He slowed, glancing over his shoulder, and glanced back at Davenport before shaking his head.  "We've never gotten along," he said finally.

"But why not?"

Garl stopped walking.  They were well out of sight of the market, standing in the road between an inn and a shop selling musical instruments.  Confusion passed over his face; he opened his mouth and then closed it again, several times, as if he were about to say something and then kept changing his mind. 

Davenport waited, giving him time.  He knew a thing or two about trying to connect ideas around gaping holes in his memory.

"Listen," said Garl finally.  "We just…we've never gotten along."

Davenport took a deep breath.  "Do you think Kurtulmak remembers?  Maybe I could ask him—"

"You will do no such thing!"

Garl's vehemence startled him.  Without thinking, he took a step back, holding up the wrapped leg of lamb as if it were a shield. 

"Why not?" he dared to ask.

Garl looked away, tugging at his hair.  "I'm trying to help you, boy!" he said.  "Can you please just trust me on this?"

"I'm trying to understand," said Davenport.  "Something's going on here and I'm trying to figure out what it is."  He took a deep breath.  "Please, can you trust _me?"_

Garl sighed.  He took Davenport by the arm again and pulled him off the street, into a little alley beside the music shop.  "It's not that I don't trust you, it's him I don't trust," he said in a low voice.  He brushed a few stray hairs out of his eyes.  "He…Kurtulmak…he can't get to me.  He'd tear me apart if he could, but he can't.  So…"  He sighed.  "He goes after people I care about."

Davenport clutched the leg of lamb more tightly. 

Garl gripped his shoulder.  "Davenport, my boy," he said, "you must be cautious around him.  Never meet with him alone, never turn your back on him for an instant.  He will kill you, if you give him a chance.  Do not give him that chance.  Do you understand?"

He might be mortal now, but there was an intensity in Garl's gaze that pinned him against the brick wall.  Eons of pain and sorrow resonated through his words, even if he had forgotten the ultimate source of it.

Davenport realized he was holding his breath.  He let it out slowly.  "Yeah," he said.  "Yeah, I understand."

 

#

 

Kravitz looked down at the stack of papers before him, trying to ignore the heavy silence in the office.  But the ravens were all gone, his fellow Reapers were out taming the Astral Sea, and the quiet pressed uncomfortably on his shoulders.  He sighed, looking over the papers again.

The Church of the Cleansing Fire was not, strictly speaking, a death cult.  They'd been put on a watch list because of their suspicious activities:  popping up in several cities at once, seemingly out of nowhere; espousing a philosophy of war; growing their numbers quickly and assassinating anyone who tried to break free.  These markers typically led to necromantic crimes.  But so far, there were no records of illegal summonings or the raising of thralls, or even the tapping of forbidden magic.  The cult was obviously up to shady activity, but they had not yet attempted to cheat death.

So the Reapers had put a tag on them.  But as there was technically nothing that actually fell under the Queen's domain, they had not acted.

Could he pin them for summoning Ruin?  Unfortunately, no.  The church might bear Ruin's sigil, but they technically had not summoned him to the Prime.  That had been an unrelated accident. 

He winced.  If anyone was responsible for Ruin's presence in the Prime, it was him.

He flipped back through the pages.  The church had existed for several months now.  Long before Ruin showed itself, long before the gods began to disappear. 

Could they have done some sort of remote ritual that created Ruin out in the Celestial Realms?  He rubbed his jaw.  Was that even possible?  Ruin was such an enormous, inexplicable phenomenon that he sorely doubted it could be created by a simple ritual with a handful of mortals.  One would need most of the magic users in the world, all working in concert, to create something of that scale.  Or the Light of Creation, which was long gone.  He didn't have any specific details on the cult's personnel--they hadn't been investigated too deeply--but there was nothing among their activities that suggested magical power on that scale.

He turned a page, and found a sketch of their sigil:  a seven-pointed star, white on a field of dark, bloody red.  "What the hell are you?" he found himself saying. 

Abruptly he slammed the folder shut and activated the intercom.  "Lup, Barry, please come to the main office," he said. 

They both arrived a few minutes later, Lup with her violin in her hands and Barry carrying that godsawful keyscythe.  Lup's hair was a wild mess and Barry looked similarly rumpled.  The Astral Sea had been keeping them busy.  "Yeah, boss?" asked Lup.

He handed them the file folder.  "I need you to do some groundwork for me," he said.  "This is all the information we have about this cult that Angus was following.  Perhaps you'll be able to dig up something more about their connection to Ruin, or recognize some more…IP infringements," he said.  "They have outposts in several cities, but their main center of operations seems to be Goldcliff, for now.  I'd go myself, but…well."

Barry took the folder and glanced through its contents.  "Yeah, we can take a gander," he said.  "But you'll probably need to fill in for us down at the Sea.  It's really all we can do to, uh, keep it contained."

"Leave that to me," said Kravitz.

"Wanna borrow the keyscythe?" asked Lup. 

He sighed.  "No thank you, Lup.  I'm quite sure I'll be able to handle this the old-fashioned way."

She shrugged.  "Famous last words.  Anyway, we'll get this cult thing figured out in a jiff.  Don't wait up!"  And she vanished in a cloud of flaming raven feathers. 

Barry didn't say anything.  But he regarded Krav in silence for half a moment, then set his keyscythe on Kravitz's desk with a nod.  And then he was gone.

 

#

 

Hurley didn't remember getting back to her tree.  Consciousness flowed back into her like a tide: first the feeling of water in her roots, then sunlight on her branches.  The love that pulsed slow as sap through the heartwood.  The warm presence of Sloane wrapped tightly around her.

"Welcome home," said the voice she loved more than any in the world. 

"What happened?" Hurley murmured.  She remembered staggering out of her office, thinking only that she needed to get home as fast as possible.  Her memories beyond that point were fragments:  here a street corner, there a sign post.  And then nothing at all.

"You were carried home," said Sloane.  "You were found three blocks away from here.  There was a crowd.  They carried you."

Hurley reached out her awareness.  A crowd stood around the tree, staring at her in concern.  A few nature clerics were standing in the pond, praying over her roots, including a Pannite cleric and a halfling bearing the sigil of Yondalla, the Nurturing Matriarch of the halfling pantheon.  Others in the crowd were checking the water, skimming it free of a shocking amount of dropped leaves and blossoms.

A flood of gratitude for the people of Goldcliff flowed through Hurley's limbs.  But it was followed just as quickly by fear.  How bad did she and Sloane look, that the crowd was this concerned?  Even wrapped up in her tree, she still felt exhausted, and Sloane no doubt felt the same way.  Gone was the feverish energy that had filled them before.  All of it was draining away, leaving them bereft.

If the tree died, they both died with it.

"Oh, Sloane," she said, her voice breaking over the name.  She pressed closer to her lover, wanting nothing more than to feel her presence as closely as her own self.

"Hurley," said Sloane.  "We'll be okay.  I don't know how, but…we'll figure this out.  And even if we don't, even if we're on borrowed time…I'm glad I'm here with you."

The words stung Hurley unexpectedly.  "Sloane, I…I can't stay here.  I need to find a way to stop this.  Stop everything.  The end of the world, all of it."  She knew she should pull away.  If she stayed like this much longer, she would lose all will to leave her lover—and perhaps what little energy she had left to even move at all. 

But she couldn't bear to.  Not yet.  "I'm…I've got a clue, and I need to follow it."

Sloane was silent for a long time.  "Then we'll go together," she said.  Her voice was a tired whisper, but there was a strength of will to it all the same.  It was that strength of will that Hurley always admired about her.

She couldn't help but smile.  "Why am I not surprised you'd say that?" she asked.

Sloane smiled back, entwining her limbs with Hurley's.  "Not the first time we've done the impossible."

 

#

 

Magnus was just giving his new buddy Ozrith a tour of the _Wave Smasher_ when Avi called.  "Yo, Avi!" he said.  "What's the news?"

"Uh…not great?" came Avi's voice.

Magnus's stomach dropped.  "Lucretia?"

"Yeah, got it in one."

Magnus gripped the Stone of Farspeech.  "What happened?" 

"Well, nothing yet," said Avi.  "But she's doing that thing where she's burying herself in her work and not really talking to anyone, and--well.  I'm not the only one up here who's starting to worry."

Magnus stepped out onto the deck and saw the moon base off to the east, looking faded and almost translucent in the daylight.  "Can you throw me a sphere?" he asked.  "I'm coming up."

"Will do, buddy!  And, uh, thanks."

Magnus shrugged.  "Whatever I can do to help," he said.  He put the stone back in his pocket and gripped the deck railing.  He felt cold and a little nauseous at the same time.  They'd been through this already, and he'd thought that Lucretia had learned that she could ask for help.  But here she was again, cutting herself off.  Barely speaking during their group Parleys.  He'd noticed.

"What's going on?" asked Ozrith, appearing at his side.  Marmalade followed her, rubbing his face against her leg.  She minced away from him.

"Honestly, I wish I knew," he said. 

A Bureau sphere crash-landed on the beach, exactly where the last one had landed.  Ozrith screeched, leaping into Magnus's arms.

"Hey," he said, "how do you feel about flying to the moon?"

 

#

 

Less than an hour later, Magnus stood just outside of Lucretia's office, one hand lifted to knock at the door.  He hesitated.

He didn't like hesitating.  But, well…not that he'd admit it, he was a little afraid of what he'd find.

This wouldn't be the first time he visited Lucretia while she was hiding in her room.

He forced himself to knock.  "Lucretia?  It's Magnus.  I'm coming in." 

There was a pause from inside, like a held breath.  Then, "I know."

He walked into her office, half-expecting her to be in the middle of something nefarious.  But she was just sitting at her desk, writing.  Papers and index cards were pinned and piled everywhere.

"Avi called me," he said. 

"I know," she repeated.

"He said you were--"

"--acting strange, cutting myself off.  I know that too." 

He rubbed the back of his hand.  "Lucretia," he said, "what's going on?"

She looked up at him for the first time.  She didn't look nearly as bad off as Magnus had feared.  She didn't have those dark circles under her eyes that had become so familiar during the Century.  She looked healthy, energized.

"I'm trying to save the world," she said.  "And the best thing I can do to help that cause is to write.  So, I'm writing." 

"I'm, uh, not exactly sure how writing is going to save the world."

She stood.  "I can't say I fully understand it myself.  Just believe me when I say that JeffAndrew has a hand in it."  She picked up a piece of paper and handed it to him.  "You found the person you were looking for, the one who was going to help us track Davenport.  She's a kobold named Ozrith.  She came to the moonbase with you, along with Davenport's cat."

Magnus read her writing.  It was a line-by-line description of his ascent to the moon with Ozrith and Marmalade in tow.  He looked up at Lucretia, and noticed--for the first time--a faint, unearthly glimmer in her gaze.

"So you can see us?" he asked.

"When I write about you."  She crossed the room and showed him a cluster of index cards listing various strange phenomena from across the world:  flooding in Neverwinter, drought in Goldcliff, a town being overrun by ghosts, a small village whose crops have been eaten by grasshoppers the size of ponies.  "I can fix this, Magnus, or try to.  I just need time to focus on it.  I need--"

The moon base lurched to the side.  Lucretia stumbled, but Magnus caught her easily.  Sirens began to blare.

Avi's voice came over the intercom.  "Attention all personnel, we're experiencing some, uh, turbulence, and it's gonna get really nasty.  All engineering personnel please report to Central Navigation, and everyone else--uh--just hang on tight!"  There was a pause.  "Oh, and if you have anything breakable," he added, "now's a really good time to make sure they're secured."

Magnus and Lucretia both turned towards the window at the same time.   A storm cloud was quickly overtaking them, and rain began to sheet over the glass.  A small tree went whipping past; he recognized it from the Bureau's lawn. 

"I think it's safe to say that's a hurricane," said Lucretia. 

"Well.  That isn't good."

"Get down to Navigation," she said.  "Help Avi.  I'll stay here and do what I can."

"You got any anti-hurricane magic?  Maybe your shield?"

She shook her head.  "The shield doesn't keep out air, so the wind would just blow right through the damn thing." 

"Okay, then let's save that as Plan B.  What's Plan A?"

She pulled out the quills.  They glowed softly white in her hands.  "Looks like I'm going to have to use my words."


	22. Changing Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozrith is over the moon. Magnus sees a fork in the road. Lucretia makes an executive decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for non-graphic, temporary character death

So.  This was Ozrith's life now.  Stuck on a moon base with a bunch of strangers, while her de-facto protector went off to talk to another one of the Seven Birds.  Her only remaining companion was a cat who wouldn't leave her alone.

They'd been halfway up to the moon when she discovered she had a deathly fear of heights.  She'd clung to Magnus's arm, trying not to look out the windows.  "I can't look!" she'd squeaked, pressing her face into his sleeve.  "I don't think kobolds were meant to fly!  Just tell me when it's over, okay?"

Magnus had insisted they were fine, everything was fine, but everything was _not fine_ and the cat kept trying to crawl into her lap, staring at her with its one good eye.  She'd been pretty sure it was hungry and planning to eat her.

"He's just trying to be supportive," he'd said.  "Just pet him.  It'll make you feel better."

Ozrith didn't believe him.  But she stroked Marmalade's back anyway, hoping--if nothing else--to appease the cat so it wouldn't bite her.  He seemed to approve, arching his back into her clawed hand.

"…Oh my gods," she'd said after half a minute of silent petting.  "This is amazing."

Magnus grinned.  The hatch at the bottom of the moon base opened wide to receive them.  "Told you so!"

By the time they stepped out into the hangar, she and Marmalade were buddies. 

And then Magnus started introducing her around.  There was a big orc lady and a dragonborn lady, and a tired-looking human man.  Like Magnus, they all surprised Ozrith by not trying to kill her on sight. 

"So," said Magnus, "this is my buddy Ozrith--can I call you Ozzie?  She was friends with Cap'nport, and now she's with me.  I think she can help us track him down."

Ozrith froze.  'Ozzie' was what her friends called her.  She was still grappling with the idea that Davenport had been her friend, and now Magnus wanted to be friends with her?  She knew the world was getting topsy-turvy on account of the apocalypse, but she just couldn't take so much _niceness._

"Uh, yeah," she said.  "Ozzie."

She was the worst kobold ever.

And then Magnus rushed off, and she was left standing with a bunch of strangers, holding Marmalade.  They led her down a hallway to an elevator, saying something about the navigation center, and she followed because what else was she supposed to do? 

"So," said the dragonborn, Carrie, "Magnus said you had a lead on Davenport?"  They were in a big glass dome with a clear view of the sky.  Most of the clouds were below them, and above was nothing but blue as far as she could see.

She pulled out her enchanted compass.  Its arrow still swung wildly.  "Just this.  It's supposed to track wherever he is, but now it's…well.  Magnus said that since Davenport is inside Ruin now, maybe we could use it to track Ruin?"  Magnus had also said something about it eating all the gods, which was wild.  But even if it were true, she couldn't bring herself to kill one gnome to bring back Kurtulmak.  She doubted she'd have a chance against a giant wyrm.

"May I see?"  Avi held out a hand. 

She handed over the compass.  He turned it over, examining the metal casing.  "Hmm…I'm not a magic expert, but I might be able to hook this into the base's navigational system.  I'd need to put some controls in, but I may be able to use this to chart a course.  Could you walk me through the enchantments it uses?"

She blinked.  "I'm, uh…I don't know?  I just know it's tracking him because that's who I've been, uh, trying to find.  I just kinda guessed it was working based on what I want?"

Avi smiled.  "Then you can stick around to help," he said.  "If we can--"

A light on the console began to flash and beep.  "I didn't do it!" she squealed, jumping away from it and raising both hands.  "I swear, I didn't touch anything!"

Avi scrambled to the console and typed a bunch of buttons.  "Oh no," he said.  "We've got incoming."

"What is it?" boomed the orc woman, Killian.  "It's not Ruin, is it?"

The light in the dome dimmed.  The clear blue sky had turned iron-gray.

"Worse," said Avi.  "Hurricane." 

"Wait, at this altitude?"  Carey glanced up, brow furrowed, as if someone else could give her an explanation.  Rain had begun to pelt the glass.  "We should be out of range--"

"It's, uh, right on top of us," said Avi, just as the base shuddered. 

"Where did it come from?"  Killian looked at Carey, who shrugged.

"I mean, it's nothing weirder than the weird weather patterns we've already seen," said Avi.  "We just happen to be right in the middle of it when it's happening."

"Oh no oh no oh no…" Ozrith moaned, picking up Marmalade and burying her face in his fur.  "I told him kobolds weren't meant to be up this high!"  Her life began to flash before her eyes.  It was a pretty unimpressive life, but it was hers and she didn't want to lose it.  Behind her, Avi was yelling into the loudspeaker, telling everyone to hang on.  Hang on to what? 

"Okay," said Avi, "I'm going to try to get us above it.  Killian, could you grab that lever over there and pull?  I need back-up thrusters at max!  Carey, grab that--"

Whatever Avi was about to say was lost in the sound of shattering glass and screeching metal, as the dome came down on them.

 

#

 

Magnus rushed over the wind-whipped lawn of the Bureau, heading straight for the dome that housed the Navigation center.  Rain was already coming down out of the lead-grey sky in stinging sheets.  He had no idea what Lucretia was planning to do, but he hoped she'd do it soon.

Something went whistling down out of the sky and landed hard on the grass.  Steam poured up from the impact site.  Magnus slowed and angled in its direction, wondering if the base itself were being torn apart and some piece of vital equipment had been tossed around.  But then the steam faded, revealing a dark, pock-marked rock.

Another one landed on the sidewalk with a loud crack.  Fragments of shattered paving stones mixed with bits of shiny black rock.

"Oh, fuck," he said.

On top of the hurricane, they were getting hit with meteorites.

He hurried towards the dome, pulling his leather jacket over his head, even though there was no way the leather would actually protect him from falling space rocks.  He saw other B.O.B. employees rushing through the rain.

"Get inside!" he roared at them over the noise of the storm.  "Get everyone down to the lower levels!"

Through the rush of rain, he heard another high, whistling sound and instinctively ducked.

The meteorite slammed into the dome right in front of him.  Glass shattered and steel girders buckled. 

He gritted his teeth, and rushed in.

Killian was holding one arm over her head, to shield herself from the rain of glass.  She was huddled over both Carey and Ozrith.  Avi lay unmoving only a few feet away from her, his upper body crushed under a twisted steel girder.

Magnus had a split second to process that Avi was dead.

And then the world shifted, and Avi was alive again.

Magnus reeled, staggering back against the doorframe.  What the hell just happened?  It felt like--like Istus's endless scarf had just been split in two, or--or ripped out and re-stitched, sending Fate down a different path.  For a few seconds, he saw both paths at the same time:  Avi-dead, Avi-alive, like he was passing by a fork in the road and could still see the other path if he turned his head.  But Fate kept moving down the Avi-alive path, and the Avi-dead path slipped out of sight.

He took several deep breaths.  Had he…done that?

No, that didn't make any sense.  He could pause time, slipping between the seconds like trees in a thick wood, but Istus hadn't given him the power to _undo_ time.  He couldn't change fate.  He knew that.  He knew it like he knew how to swing an axe.

So what just happened?

"Magnus!" Carey shouted.  "You okay?"

He forced himself upright.  "Yeah, yeah--just a bit winded, friend.  Is…is everyone all right in here?"

"For now," said Avi, who stood only a couple of feet from the steel girder that had almost crushed him.  He was pale with shock but definitely alive. 

"I'd like to get off the moon now, please," Ozzie said weakly.    

Magnus looked up.  A shimmering disk of magic was forming over the base.  Lucretia's shield.  He saw flashes of distant light in the darkness, as the meteorites smacked against its surface and evaporated on impact.  It didn't shut out the weather, but at least they wouldn’t have to worry about more meteorites.

"Avi," he said, "can you get us above the storm?"

"Working on it!"  Avi scrambled over to the console, boots crunching over the shattered glass.  He checked the readouts.  "Console's still operational," he said, removing a piece of fallen metal paneling.  "At full engine power with back-up thrusters, we should be able to gain a couple thousand feet in about five minutes.  But, uh, I don't know how high this hurricane extends?  So that might, uh, be a problem…"

He went to Avi's side, holding up his shield to keep off the rain and any other debris that might come falling.  At least he could try to keep his friend from dying a second time.  Avi pulled a lever, and the moon base began to thrum more loudly than he'd ever heard it.

"What's happening now?!" Ozzie squeaked.  "Is everything gonna explode?  Because it sounds like it might explode!"

"That's just the engine."  Avi wiped the rain from his face.  It was still sheeting down through the hole in the dome.

And then, just as suddenly, the rain stopped.  The sky went from lead-gray to pale silver and then to blue, as if the hurricane had been peeled away, revealing a perfect sunny day behind it.

Magnus looked up.  It wasn't the same effect as before; there was no splitting of Fate into suddenly diverging paths.  The storm was simply there, and then it wasn't there.

Avi looked around, mouth working silently.  He ran one hand through his tousled, wet hair.  "Uh…huh."

"You know," said Carey, "I was never a very religious person, but I kind of preferred it when the gods were around to make sure the sky didn't just stop working."

Killian made a harsh noise in the back of her throat.  "At least the Relics were localized," she said.  "With this?"  She waved a hand at the gaping hole in the ceiling.  "There's just no safe place to be."  She pulled Carey close to her side.

"What do we do now?" asked Ozzie.  Her voice sounded very small.

Magnus sighed.

It would have taken him two minutes to reach Lucretia's office at a brisk run.  Instead he got there in two seconds, barrelling heedlessly between one moment and the next.  This time, he didn't even bother to knock.  "What's going on, Lucy?" he demanded, rushing into her room.  "What did you just do?"

She looked up from a pile of papers on her desk.  She sighed, and rubbed her face with one hand.  It left a streak of ink across one cheek.  "I wrote calm weather into the story," she said. 

Magnus stared at her.  "Huh.  Okay?"

She put her quills away and stood.  "I can't say I understand exactly how it works.  But this is the power that's been granted to me by JeffAndrew."  She extended her arms, indicated all the papers and notes around her office.  "To hold the world together, just a little longer, by writing about how things ought to be."

He looked around the room, noticing now the empty mugs, a rumpled pillow and blanket in one corner, a half-eaten sandwich laying forgotten on a side table.

He nodded.  "All right," he said.  "Then I'm staying here."

Both her eyebrows shot up. 

"Look, Luce," he said.  "Clearly you've got a lot that you're doing.  And I can't say I really understand it.  But someone's gotta look after you while you're holding everything together.  And look after the rest of the B.O.B., too."

"I…Magnus, I appreciate it, but--"

"I'm not accepting a 'no' on this," he said, crossing the room to scoop up the empty plates and get the tea kettle heating up again.  "You know you can just ask for help.  I can't do your emissary duties for you, but I can at least make sure you're eating." 

She gave him a tired smile.  "You're right," she said.  "I, uh, suppose I could use a little assist."  She nodded.  "All right.  I'm appointing you Interim Director of the Bureau of Benevolence.  Congratulations on your promotion."

He blinked, arms full of dirty dishes.  "What?"

"I'm afraid I've been neglecting my duties, focusing on my, uh, Jeff work.  The Bureau needs a strong leader in these times, and I think you're the man for the job."  She crossed the room and looked out over the Bureau lawn, damp and glimmering in the sunlight.  "Yes, this should work," she added in a quieter voice, and Magnus wasn't sure if she was speaking to him or to herself.

He set down the dishes and looked at his friend.  She stood alone and erect, like a statue built in an empty, echoing room.  He wasn't going to leave her alone again.  Not again.

"All right," he said.  "I'll do that."

 

#

 

"Get those stacks of copy over on the table!" Jeff Jeffins bellowed.  "And someone get more tarps!"

Jeff Angel picked up a heavy crate of the most recent editions of the Jeff Report, and carried it over to the big table they'd set aside for anything they didn't want soaking wet.  A handful of other reporters scrambled after him, straining to pick up crates that had been lifted easily by the beefy aarakocra. 

Jeff Jeffins surveyed his operation.  The endless rain outside had started to seep in, pouring under the metal door and dripping from the ceiling.   One of his cub reporters carried in fresh buckets to place under the leaks.  So far, no leaks had sprung up over the press itself, but the floor was damp and that was causing the paper to warp.  Their attempt to print the latest issue had caused bad smudges and a couple of jams.

His reporters could write all they wanted, but their power was hampered if he couldn't get the Reports out on the street.

But even if he could, who would buy them?  People were too busy panicking over food and shelter during the relentless rains.  The streets of Neverwinter were turning into muddy channels.  The city was being crippled.

He considered, once again, the possibility of moving the press.  But the time and effort it would take to disassemble it and take it somewhere else and get it running again would take several days.  And those were days they couldn't afford to lose.

He headed to the inner office.  He'd set up a schedule so that at least three of his reporters were writing at any given time, round the clock.  One of them, Alexandrew, was currently on Neverwinter duty, trying to push back the storm.  Two others were shoring up other locations; he leaned over and saw an article take shape about the majestic waterfalls of Goldcliff.

He cleared his throat.  "Change of plans," he said.  "I want all three of you working on this storm.  Try to get it pushed back.  If we don't dry out soon, our whole operation may be compromised."

As the other reporters scrambled to obey, he pulled out his Stone of Farspeech and tried, once more, to call Lucretia.  He needed all hands on deck, and had no doubt that if she focused her attention on this storm along with the others, they could push it back with ease.  Hopefully.

But as usual, she didn't pick up.  Outside, the rains continued to fall.


	23. Location, Location, Location

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angus finds his way. Ozrith gets recruited. Davenport chaperones a field trip.

Angus sat down on a moss-covered log and took stock of his situation.  He was tired, hungry, and covered in sweat.  At least one of those was manageable; he pulled out his wand and cast Conjure Food and Water.  The turkey club sandwich and flask of water was enough to satisfy him, even if conjured food always tasted a little flat.

He'd been walking around for hours now, and it was starting to get dark.  He'd seen the occasional footprints and broken branches that suggested at least a few council members had passed by this area, but he hadn't spotted anyone yet, and the trails disappeared quickly in the thick undergrowth.   He had no idea where he was.  The buildings and streets in this part of Rockport had been so quickly and thoroughly overrun by the forest that he couldn't recognize any familiar landmarks.  The cobblestones were barely visible beneath the undergrowth, and the trees had reduced the buildings here to broken shells.

He sighed into his sandwich.  Well, best he could do was find a safe place to bed down for the night, and resume the search at first light.  He glanced up at the trees, wondering if it would be safer to climb up one of them and sleep in dragon form.  His gaze landed on a notch, cut cleanly into the reddish bark. 

He shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth and climbed carefully over the uneven roots until he reached the marked tree.  He reached up and ran his fingers along the notch.  Likely a blade, judging by the cleanness of the cut.  He looked around at the other trees, and found more notches at the same height.  Like someone had been marking a trail.

He followed them.  The forest grew darker.  The sound of his footsteps mingled with the growing chorus of peeping insects and hooting birds.  Somewhere off in the distance, a monkey chittered.

Out of the darkness, a fire glimmered into view.  Angus paused, every fiber of his being suddenly alert.  His first panicked thought was _forest fire_.  But the light remained in place, burning steadily in the distance.

Someone had lit a campfire.  And the notches headed in that direction.

It was tricky to find stable footing in the twilight gloom, let alone to approach silently.  So he just kept his wand in his hand, and hoped that whoever he found wasn't hostile.

Instead, he found an old man sitting on a fallen log, squinting at a book in his lap.  He was tall and lean, and his hands were scarred.  He'd built a campfire in a flat circle of dark earth, where the cobblestones had recently been pulled up.  He looked up at Angus, and smiled.  "There you are," he said.  His eyes were very bright.

"Yeah," said Angus, bewildered.  Had this person been expecting him?  "Here, uh, here I am, sir.  And you are…?"

"Buiron," he said.  "Buiron Steelheart."  He gestured to a stump on the other side of the fire.

Angus sat.  "Angus McDonald," he said.  "I've been looking for you, sir."

"I'm sure you have," he said, smiling ruefully.  "It was only a matter of time before someone sought me out, to ask about the God-Sword."

"You know about it, then?"

"Of course."  The old man's eyes shone.  "I was the one who forged it."

Angus was silent, processing this.  "You...made it for the Church of the Cleansing Fire?  Why?  How did you make it so it was able to cleave spells in half?  How does it fly around?  How does it--"

Buiron raised one callused hand, forestalling more questions.  "That part wasn't me," he said.  "I just made a very fine sword, the best sword I've ever made.  What sorts of enchantments were laid upon it later, by the one who commissioned it from me, well…I can't claim that sort of arcane power."

Angus frowned.  "I need a weapon that can defeat it," he said.  "I can…I can get it to one of the most powerful fighters on Faerun, but I need something that can stand up to the God-Sword."

Buiron glanced down at the book resting open on his knees.  He licked a fingertip and turned the page.  "I've been working on that very problem," he said. 

"You…you have?"  This was going too easily.  It had to be going too easily, right?

Buiron looked up at him.  "It wasn't just chance that brought you here," he said.  "I believe there are larger forces at play.  Do you not sense it?"  He quirked one white eyebrow. 

Angus swallowed.  "I believe in my detective's intuition," he said.  "I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that the gods are out of the picture, for now."

"Not entirely."  He held up the book for Angus to see.  It was bound in very old brown leather, and its cracked cover read _The Book of Gond._   "They have left things in this world we can still use to our advantage.  Are you familiar with Gond?"

"Of course!  He's the god of smithing and invention."

Buiron smiled.  "It's said that the site of his original forge is in Rockport.  And if his forge were activated again by the proper rituals, a clever smith could produce true wonders in its fires."  His eyes twinkled.  "Perhaps I could make something to rival the God-Sword.  I just need a clever, more arcanely-attuned mind to deduce the clues and find a way to reactivate the forge."

Angus straightened up.  "I…I could try," he said.  "If we found it."

The old mastersmith's smile widened.  "That won't be a problem," he said, gesturing to the campfire. 

Angus looked down at the firepit.  The cobblestones, he realized, hadn't been torn up by the growing roots, but pulled up afterward.  And beneath those cobblestones, barely visible beneath a thin layer of dirt and clay, was a circle of very old stone.  He crouched down and brushed away some more dirt with his fingers, noticing the time-worn runes carved deeply into the circle.

"I already found the forge," said Buiron.  "We're sitting right on top of it."

 

#

 

"Okay," said Avi, "activating in three--two--one--"  He flipped a switch.

The consol's navigation screen lit up.  Ozrith's compass, fitted into the console and connected to it by various wires and an arcane mini-circle, began to hum.  The arrow didn't move, or even twitch.

Ozrith sat on a chair nearby, brushing Marmalade because his warm, furry presence in her lap was the only thing on this moon base that didn't freak her out.  Between the flying and the storm and the weird hums and thrums and flashing buttons, and all the employees who looked like they could easily snap her in half if they suddenly decided they didn't like her, she was surprised she hadn't just had a heart attack and died by now. 

She glanced up at the shattered dome; it was getting dark outside, and she could see the actual moon, hanging swollen and red in the sky.

"The connections are working," said Avi, flipping a few switches and checking the compass.  "But it's not registering any data yet.  Ozzie, wanna give it a go?"

"Um."  She looked at the array of blinking lights and buttons and switches.  "What should I do?  Usually I just hold the compass and it does its thing."

"Well, I didn't think it would be as useful to, like, have you stand at the console 24/7 for it to work.  So I linked up the compass to something you could wear."  He pulled out a silver bracer with the Bureau logo on the side.  "It's a newer model, so you can take it on or off as needed.  But it's magically linked to the compass.  So if my theory is correct, the compass should be able to detect your intent remotely, as long as you're wearing this."

She stared at the bracer.

"Go ahead!" said Carey.  "You're the Bureau's newest unofficial recruit!"

She looked at all of them.  Clearly they'd lost their minds.  A kobold, in the B.O.B.?  Was that even _allowed?_    

A huge hand gripped her shoulder.  She looked up, and up some more, at the face of the orc woman, Killian.  She gave Ozrith a small nod.  As if reading the questions in her head, she said, "Yeah.  Even you."

Ozrith let out the breath she'd been holding.  "Okay," she said.  "Okay."  She took the bracer, and slipped it on over her right arm.  It fitted into place with a click.

Immediately, the compass arrow began to swing back and forth, and the console screen lit up with navigation data. 

"All right!" said Avi.  "Let's see if we can track this bad boy."

Ozrith swallowed.  "We're not gonna get, um, close to Ruin, are we?" 

"Unlikely.  That thing's way too fast for the base to keep up with.  But, if we combine the compass's data with information from the surface and Magnus's recall of Davenport's map, we might be able to recreate its route."

"Of course," said Killian, folding her arms, "even if we do figure out its route again, it's not gonna do us much good unless we can either keep up with it, or find a way to slow it down.  And then find out a way to get the gods out of it."

"What about Lucretia's big shield?" offered Carey.  "Not like with the Hunger, where you put the shield around and it blows apart, but...what if the shield could hold it in place?"

Avi looked up from the console, brow furrowed.  "Huh.  Well, it is the most powerful shield spell in the world," he said.  "It's basically a wall of pure force.  If anyone could pull it off at that level, it would be Lucretia…"

Ozrith went back to brushing Marmalade, letting the rest of the conversation wash over her.  Planning a way to take down a big monster was a hero thing, not a thing for her.  Even if she was part of the Bureau of Benevolence now. 

She ran a clawed hand over the bracer.  Even now, it was directing her to the monster that had devoured both her god and a gnome who'd tried to befriend her.  Like there was anything at all she could possibly do about it!  Like she was supposed to save them both, somehow. 

She was no skulking assassin, fine.  But she wasn't a hero, either.  Then what was she?

Marmalade woke up from his drowsing and leapt from her lap, heading to the door on whatever kitty business had suddenly interested him.  Must be nice, she thought, to just be able to get up and walk away from everything.

She wished she could.

But the compass kept wheeling its arrow around, pointing her to a destiny she couldn't see.

 

#

 

"Interesting," said Garl.  "What is it?" 

Davenport hefted the scanner and booted it up.  "A bond analyzer," he said.  "Hold still."

Garl raised an eyebrow.  "And what does it say about me?"

Davenport scanned the readout.  It wasn't as robust in its analysis as he'd prefer; he'd had to throw it together from spare parts in a few days.  But it could at least give him a number, which was a good starting point.

Garl's bond energy was shockingly low.  Davenport adjusted a few parameters, but it repeated the same number. 

There were several factors that increased or decreased the bond energy of a living being.  But in his experience, the older and more powerful a being was, the more their bonds increased, simply because their being in the world had such an impact.  An ancient dragon could live alone and friendless in a cave and still be a brilliant beacon of bonds.

A god should, in theory, be off the charts.  But Garl had the same bond levels as Barry Bluejeans when they'd first met at the IPRE.  Low for an adult gnome, inexplicable for an ancient divine being.

"You seem puzzled," said Garl.  "How am I reading?"

"Not great, if I'm being honest," said Davenport.  "If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say the majority of your bonds have been severed.  Whether this is the cause of your amnesia or an expression of it, that remains to be seen."

He half-expected Garl to smile and wave off his comments about amnesia, as he'd done from the beginning.  But Garl simply looked puzzled, like he was actually considering Davenport's words for once.  Like they were finally sticking in his brain. 

Interesting.

He still didn't know the nature of the gods' collective amnesia.  But it seemed to be an ongoing effect, discouraging them from thinking too hard about the gaps in their memories, encouraging a sort of complacency.  An enchantment, perhaps?  Whether it was as potent an effect as the voidfish remained to be seen.   

Whatever it was, it didn't affect him.  He certainly hadn't forgotten anything about his life or why he was here.  Perhaps because he wasn't a god, and therefore wasn't within the spell's target parameters?  It was the best guess he had, for now.

So he kept on talking about the things he remembered, since he was the only one who did.  Either the gods would ignore him, or he would (hopefully) jog something loose.      

"Well, that doesn't sound good," said Garl.  "Can severed bonds be restored?"

Davenport looked up.  "Uh, maybe?"

Gaerdal came in from the kitchen, carrying a bowl with a couple of raw steaks on it.  "Feeding time," he muttered, opening a small wire cage set up by the bay window.  He dumped the steaks inside. 

An albino mole screeched and tackled the steak, tearing it to shreds with its teeth.  Davenport looked away.

"Um, Garl?" he asked.  "Is it, ah, wise to keep Urdlen in the house?  It just seems a little…unsafe."  Urdlen was the one evil god of the gnome pantheon, a force of greed and destruction.  In losing its divine power, it had shrunk to the size of an average mole.  But its personality hadn't changed a bit.

Garl shrugged.  "What, you'd rather it roam free where I can't keep an eye on it?"

Davenport didn't have an answer to that.

Gaerdal snorted.  "It's safest with us," he said.  "Though if it were up to me, I'd put this foul creature down.  One less thing to worry about."

A knock sounded at the door.  Pan poked his head in.  "Hey, who's ready to get their butt kicked in poker?  I brought the wine!"

Garl grinned.  "I didn't think you'd be brave enough to try me again, after last week's humiliating loss," he said.  "Come on in, table's ready."

Pan came in, followed by the Raven Queen, who walked with such grace that she seemed to float over the hardwood floor.  "Istus is on her way," she intoned.  "As soon as she arrives, we may begin with the gaming." 

Pan waved at Davenport.  "Hey, good to see you settlin' in!  What's that thingy you got?"

"Bond analyzer."

"Davenport's been studying my bonds," said Garl.  "It's quite an enlightening experience."

"Ooh, wicked cool, man!  Hey, do me and Raven!"

Davenport shrugged, and scanned them both.  He wasn't going to turn down the opportunity for more data.  "Looks like you're about at the same level as Garl," he said.  "Raven, you're a little lower."

Pan chortled.  Raven shrugged, seating herself elegantly at the card table.  "Whatever bonds are," she said, "I'm sure the lack of them is no great loss."

Davenport frowned.  "Everyone needs bonds," he said.  "We have bonds whether we want them or not.  They connect us to everything and everyone around us."

"Davenport and I were just discussing whether they can be restored.  Or perhaps encouraged to grow."  Garl smiled as if he and Davenport had lively debates about bond physics all the time.

He considered this.  If severing the gods' bonds was part of what got them this way in the first place, trying to fix said bonds could help their situation—or at least give him more data.  "Bonds are generated simply by being in the world.  Existing, interacting with objects.  But they can also be formed by, uh, emotional connections.  Such as, say, friendship."

Raven raised one eyebrow.  "Are you suggesting we become…friends?"

Her readings were the lowest.  So an increase in her bonds would be most noticeable to the analyzer.  It couldn't hurt to try.

He was just terrible at small talk.

"Um, sure," he said.  "Do you, um…you run the cemetary, yeah?"

"That is correct," she said.

"And what did you do, um…before you came to town?"

"I ran a cemetary.  Is this conversation supposed to go anywhere?"

He flushed.  Gods, this took him back to the IPRE days, when he tried to measure bond inputs by getting to know Barry.  Those were among the most awkward conversations he'd ever had in his life.

Barry.  Of course!  "Did you work alone, then?" he tried.  "Or do you remember having…employees?"

She sniffed.  "I have never needed help.  I work alone."

"Well, that's boring," said Garl.  "Must have been dreadfully dull."

Davenport frowned.  He took a deep breath, and decided to push.  "You don't, uh, remember Kravitz?  Barry, and Lup?  Your employees?"

She frowned.  "These names mean nothing to me."

"Well, I'm sure you'd like them if you met them.  Intelligent, endlessly curious, they just…brighten up any place they are."  A lump started to form in his throat, as he realized how separated he was from his family.  "When things got bad on the ship, they'd start playing music.  And it would just…make everything lighter."

"I have no need of music," said the Raven Queen.

Davenport didn't know what to say to that.  Gods, what he wouldn't give for a Stone of Farspeech.  He wondered how Raven would react if she actually heard Barry's voice, or Kravitz's.  They were still emissaries of hers; would they still have some lingering bonds that she would respond to?

"Are you sure there's no Stones of Farspeech in town?" he asked Garl.

Garl shrugged.  "Even if there was, it would probably be blocked by the mountains, same as Message spells."

The mountains.  Right.  He glanced at them out the window, and at his bond analyzer.  "Okay," he said, and headed to the kitchen.  "I should be back by dinner time."

"Wait, where are you going?" 

"To pack a lunch.  Then I'm going to the mountains."

Garl caught up to him.  "Don't be ridiculous," he said.  "Nobody crosses the mountains."

"And why not?"

"Because…"  Garl trailed off, looking puzzled.  "It's just not done."

Davenport rolled his eyes.  He grabbed a basket from a cabinet and began to fill it from the generously-stocked larder.  "Of course it isn't done.  Because everyone's brains are scrambled so they can't even consider trying.  But I'm going.  You're welcome to come, or not."

Gaerdal snorted.  "I'll go."

"What?"  Garl looked personally offended.

"We may be safe here," said Gaerdal, "but it is always wise to understand our borders and take stock of our defenses."

"Defenses from what?" asked Pan.  "Like, who's gonna come here besides us?"

"Me, for one," said Davenport.  "Anyone else want to join us?"

Raven stood.  "I will go."

"What?"  Garl looked between her and Davenport, utterly baffled.  "But it's poker time!  We haven't even gotten started."

She frowned.  "Something strange is going on here," she said.  "A disruption in the natural order of things.  I…am not certain what it is, but I cannot quell my suspicions.  Do you not sense it, too?"

Garl was silent for a long moment.  He tugged on the tip of his mustache, shaking his head.  "I'll go too," he said finally.  "I, ah, suppose poker can wait." 

Pan leaned back in his chair.  "Well, if you don't mind, I'm gonna chill here while you try to do the impossible," he said, pouring himself a glass of wine.  "I'll let Istus know when she gets here."

"Thanks, friend."

Davenport looked over his expedition group.  A goddess of death, a god of defensive combat, and a god of trickery.  Honestly, not the strangest team he'd ever worked with.  "All right," he said.  "Let's go."

 

#

 

The trip to the mountain was a few hours on foot.  Neither Raven nor Gaerdal were naturally chatty, and Garl had fallen into a sort of quiet thoughtfulness.  So the four of them spoke very little as they passed the outer fields and the grassy meadows beyond, and up the nearest mountain's gradual slope.     

They were halfway up when Raven fell into step beside him.  It was a deliberate motion; she said nothing, but there was something in her silence that felt like an invitation.  So he began to talk about Kravitz and Barry and Lup, and about everything he remembered from their offices on the Astral Plane.  This time, she didn't shut down the conversation, but listened quietly.

"And so Barry and Lup were trying to, ah, encourage Kravitz to start playing music again.  Well, they _were,_ before everything went downhill."

"Why would they encourage music?" she asked.  "Music is frivolous.  It is a distraction from necessary work.  Did you not find that so, when they worked for you?"

He shook his head.  "No, they were tireless workers.  But music doesn't…it doesn't take away from one's life's work, it adds to it.  Just like any sort of passion, or anything you do just for fun.  It's good for your mental health."  He laughed ruefully.  "I wasn't always good at remembering that myself, but it's no less true."

They fell into silence again for several moments.  Then Raven said, "I do not think I have missed these things you speak of.  Frivolity.  Music.  But I…understand what you are saying.  I must think on this matter."

He nodded.  She sped up her steps, taking the lead in the party.  Davenport discreetly pulled out his bond analyzer, and scanned her.  Her bond energy levels were a little higher than they had been.

Gaerdal found a good path to take them towards what appeared to be a mountain pass.  The ground grew steadily rockier.  Davenport scanned the surrounding area.  The bond energy in the atmosphere was, unsurprisingly, very low for what it should be.  He glanced up at the perfect sky, and the perfect clouds drifting by.  Far behind them, the town looked strangely close, as if they hadn't traveled that far at all.

"We should examine this area for additional passes," said Gaerdal.  "It would be wise to know all the entrances to the valley."

"Of course," said Garl archly.  "We wouldn't want to take anything for granite."  He grinned.

They looked at him.  They kept walking.

"What, not even a groan?"  He threw up his hands.  "Figures, I'm stuck on this outing with the worst audience in the village!"

"What's the name of the village?" Davenport asked.

"What?"

"The name.  What do you call this place?  Does it even have a name?"  He waved one arm slowly around.  "What about this mountain range?  Do you know what province or kingdom it's in?  If I laid down a map of Faerun, could you point to the general area it's in?"

Raven stood straight, her gaze as imperious as ever.  "The mirthless one has a point, Garl."

Davenport winced inwardly.  Did she have to twist that particular knife?

Garl shook his head, muttering to himself.  "We came from the war front, we went…"  He brushed his finger through the air, as if trying to recall the path he'd taken.  "We went…"  He paused, turning to look at the village.  "I suppose we should call it _something_ ," he said.  "I want to say something about hills, but it's a valley, really.  Bright…bright something?"

"Shadowfalls," the Raven Queen offered.

"Strong…place…" said Gaerdal.

They looked at Davenport.

"Don't look at me," he said.  "You're all doing pretty well.  Just keep at it."  He ran another scan; it seemed like the farther from town they got, the more that the level of bond energy in the atmosphere continued to drop.

"Well," said Garl suddenly.  "This has certainly been an enlightening trip.  But it looks like we've reached the end."  He shrugged, and turned to begin climbing back down.

"It's good that we at least came to see," said Gaerdal, and began to follow him.

The Raven Queen sighed.  "I suppose disappointment was inevitable."  She, too, turned away.

Davenport's jaw dropped.  He looked up the mountain, which was still perfectly climbable.  No obstacle blocked their path, no clear border had been reached.  "Wait, where are you going?"  He gestured up the mountain.  "We can still keep going!"

Garl paused.  "Go where?  There's nowhere to go, anyone can see that."

Shit.  "No, no, it's the enchantment, it's whatever's got your brains scrambled!"  He ran down to where they were, tried to wave them back up the mountain like a mother hen.  "It's telling you to turn around, but you can keep going!"

Now Garl gave him a sympathetic look.  "My boy," he said, "I know you mean well, but sometimes we have to accept--"

"I'm not accepting this!"  He grabbed Garl by the sleeve and dragged him back up the mountain.  He heard the others shouting, he heard Garl's baffled demands for an explanation, but he ignored them all and kept running, dragging his god behind him.

And then he slammed headfirst into an invisible wall.

The impact sent both of them tumbling into the grass.  Davenport lay gasping for breath, one hand reaching for his bond analyzer to make sure it hadn't broken in the fall.  He tapped a few buttons and held it up.

Three feet from where he was, the bond energy simply cut off.

He got to his knees and held out a hand.  It pressed against some sort of hard barrier.  Behind the invisible wall, the mountain continued to extend. 

Garl was getting shakily to his feet, rubbing his forehead.  "My boy," he said, "warn a gnome before you drag him into--what?"

Davenport grabbed his hand, pressed it against the wall.  Garl's eyes slowly widened.  "What the…?"  He touched the wall with his other hand, feeling along it for a gap or a break, but he found nothing but more wall in either direction.  "What is this?  Where in Faerun are we?"

Davenport shook his head.  "I don't think we're in Faerun at all," he said.  "We're in a pocket dimension."  He looked down at the village, up at the untroubled sky, at the picture-postcard-worthy mountain in front of him, which--he realized--wasn't really there.  "I think Ruin is a giant bag of holding."


	24. Dedication and Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz visits the beach. Hurley goes shopping. Sloane puts some old skills to new use.

Kravitz found Mr. Nim by the shore of the Astral Sea, playing a slow, soothing melody on an old cello.  The waters were calm, lapping gently at the black sands.  Mr. Nim's eyes were closed, his focus entirely on the music.  Kravitz stood still, not wanting to interrupt.  He felt suddenly foolish and uncouth, carrying Barry's cobbled-together keyscythe.

He hadn't heard Mr. Nim play in such a long time; he hadn't even thought to ask if he did.  The old man's skill certainly hadn't diminished.  Maybe he practiced down in the Archives, the thick stone walls absorbing the cello's sonorous notes.  Kravitz found his own soul quieting, despite the enormity of the problems before him.

The melody soared upwards, like a bird winging its way into the sky, weaving up and down and up again before finally coming to rest on a long, serene note.  A moment of silence followed, as if all of the Astral Plane were an enraptured audience held in the stillness following song.

Mr. Nim opened his eyes and lowered the bow.  "I will say this much for your new recruits," he said.  "Even if Mr. Bluejeans' choice of instrument is…unconventional, it is nice to hear music in these halls again."

"It was clever," said Kravitz, "using music to calm the sea.  Incredibly effective."

Mr. Nim gave Kravitz a sharp look, one white eyebrow raised.  "Still as practical about it as always, aren't you?" he said with a grunt of despair.  "What a waste of talent.  If you'd put the whole of your heart into it, you could've gone so far."  He shook his head.  "I always did consider that my greatest failure, that I could never knock that lesson into that stubborn head of yours.  Since the world is ending anyway, I might as well tell you."

Kravitz sighed.  "Your greatest regret is that I never did enough with my music when I was alive?  It hardly seems relevant.  Thirty years of life, compared to the centuries I've been in the Raven Queen's service."

"And in all those centuries, you never realized that _who we are in life informs who we are in death."_   He spoke each word with pointed staccato for emphasis, leveling his bow towards Kravitz's chest.  "You've changed, I admit that.  But then as now, you dedicate yourself to something great, and still you hold back a part of yourself."

Kravitz frowned.  "Is this about me seeing Taako?  Because if you have a problem with him, old man--"

"As usual, you fail to grasp my meaning."  He lowered the bow.  "I've no issue with him, even if his fashion choices are…questionable.  But let me ask you this:  did you ever introduce him to the Queen?"

Kravitz opened his mouth, closed it again.  "I didn't--it didn't seem necessary.  And the Queen can be…overwhelming to mortals.  She has been gracious enough to allow it.  I've chosen to leave it at that."

Mr. Nim sighed.  He set the cello and bow back in their case, latched it shut, and seated himself slowly on the black sands.  His body, like Kravitz's, was a construct, and yet he still moved like an old man whose joints ached.  "Of course you did," he said.  "Exactly my point."

He patted the spot next to him.  Kravitz sat.  For a few moments, they said nothing.  The only sound was the rush and hiss of the Astral Sea, as it lapped the shore.  A gentle, untroubled tide pulled by the shadow of the moon.

"So," said Kravitz, "are you going to tell me what it is I've been failing to grasp?  Since the world is ending anyway."

Mr. Nim stared off at the dark horizon.  "What does it mean to you, to serve the Queen?"

Though the memory was centuries old, he couldn't help but feel like he was back in the practice room again, listening to Mr. Nim rap his baton in irritation upon the iron music stand, asking him what he thought he was doing to Fitzburg's Sonata in G.  "To enforce her will," he said.  "To serve her with all my strength and skill, to ensure the natural laws of death are obeyed, for the good of all--"

Mr. Nim snorted, waving away his list.  "Yes, yes, the natural laws of death, et cetera.  For that, you give her all your strength, and all your skill.  And you do your job well.  I grant you that.  And yet everything you love, everything deeply personal to you, you treat as an exception to your duty.  Something that the Queen 'graciously allows.'" 

Mr. Nim dug his fingers into the black sands.  "What you've failed to grasp is that this isn't how it works at all.  To dedicate yourself to something--to a cause, to a god--doesn't mean giving only those parts of yourself that you think are useful to do your job, and hiding or discarding everything else."  He scooped up a handful of black sand and held it up between them.  "It's giving all the fullness of yourself over, placing it in the Raven Queen's hand and saying, 'This is all of me.  I give it to you in trust.'"  He parted his fingers, just a little; some of the black sand ran out between them, leaving only a much smaller pile in the center of his palm.  "But instead, you set aside your passions as irrelevant to your duties.  And thus, your service is reduced to mere technical proficiency.  A Reaper who hits all the correct notes on the correct beats, and fails to hear the music as a whole."

Kravitz looked at Mr. Nim, thoughts whirling.  "So you're saying that I've been holding back because I haven't thrown a concert for the Queen?"  The idea was absurd.  The Raven Queen had never seemed interested in that sort of entertainment.  And there was always so much work to be done. 

Mr. Nim snorted.  "The closest you ever came was asking for that island with the blacksmith lady, whats-her-name."  He waved a hand towards a distant spot on the sea, dark with pine trees.

"Julia Burnsides."

"Yes, her.  Not the deal you cut for Barry and Lup, not even requesting time off to visit your celebrity boyfriend.  But going to the Queen, and telling her you wished to do something kind for a friend.  Not as an exception, not as an allowance, but as an expression of who you are as a person."

Kravitz stared at the island as if seeing it for the first time.  He felt suddenly unmoored, as his entire understanding of its existence shifted.  He thought back to the day he had asked for it.  In retrospect, it had seemed odd to him that the Raven Queen had accepted his request immediately:  no debate, no paperwork, not even a question.  Simply her voice booming, _"It is done."_   And there, off in the Astral Sea, a small island with wildflowers and pine trees, and a soul woken from a long sleep.

He ran his hands through his braids.  Had he been going about this all wrong, all this time?  If he had gone to the Raven Queen to ask for--what, a studio?  A concert hall?  A gaming den, maybe?--would she have granted him those? 

And here were Barry and Lup, barging in and bringing with them all their scientific curiosity and off-beat shenanigans and impromptu jam sessions.  Barry who wore blue jeans on missions, and Lup who said there was no good reason why she couldn't just turn her scythe into a flamethrower.

"Did you do that?" he asked Mr. Nim.  "Offer your music to the Raven Queen?"

"Once a year.  Her annual inspection of the Archives.  When she is finished, I play a new composition for her."

"And does she…enjoy music?"

Mr. Nim chuckled.  It was a thin, dry sound, like dusty parchment.  "I have no idea," he said.  "She expresses neither enjoyment nor displeasure at my efforts.  But she thanks me for them, all the same."

Kravitz leaned his elbows on his knees, and rested his forehead against his hands.  "And now the world's ending," he muttered, "and all I can think about is how much time I've wasted.  What should I--what are we even supposed to do, now that she's gone?  If she doesn't come back, if it all falls apart…"

"We do our duty," said Mr. Nim.  "With every fiber of our being, to the bitter end."  He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small, iron key.  He handed it to Kravitz.

Kravitz turned the key over in his hands.  It was a key to an archival chest, with a number carved into the skull-shaped head.  "What's this?"

"There's so much of you that you put aside when you became a Reaper, Kravitz," said Mr. Nim, getting to his feet.  "But I am the Archivist.  It is my job to preserve and to remember the past, for the day when someone else needs it."  He picked up the case and began to make his way back to the citadel.

Kravitz sat for a few minutes longer, pondering his old mentor's words, watching the waters—still calmed, for now—and the distant island.  Slipping the key into his pocket, he got to his feet, keyscythe in hand, and headed for the Archives.

 

#

 

Hurley knocked on the door of the modest two-story house in Goldcliff's merchant district.  This part of town was quiet, not yet touched by the riots.  The curtains were drawn, which could be a sign of suspicious activity inside.  But with the unpredictable state of the city, many residents had taken to shutting and barring their windows.  As if they could hide from the chaos outside.

The Militia was finally starting to contain the riots.  But the world was still falling apart.  At this point, Hurley wondered if normalcy was even possible, barring a world-saving miracle.  She ran her thumb along her other arm, feeling the places where all her flowers and leaves had dropped off.

The door opened on a large, stocky human man, perhaps in early middle age, mostly bald and with pale blue eyes. He looked down at Hurley.  "May I help you?"

"Officer Hurley of the Goldcliff Militia," she said, showing her badge.  "Are you Arrold Valcrest?"  The man nodded.  "I'd like to ask you a few questions.  May I come in?"

Mr. Valcrest stepped back, opening the door wider and bowing graciously.  "But of course, officer.  To what do I owe the honor of a visit?"

She scanned the living room.  It was well-kept but not particularly ostentatious, kept nice enough for entertaining guests and clients.  The only decorations were a few highly-polished, expensive-looking weapons hung on the wall.  Unsurprising, for a weapons merchant.  They served as both decoration and a display of wares.

"I understand you recently secured a contract to provide weapons to the Militia?" she said. 

"I hope the Militia is satisfied with my product?" he said.  "The contract, of course, does come with a guarantee of quality.  If there is any flaw in the workmanship, I am at your service to do what I can to resolve the issue."

"There's no problem with the quality," she said.  "I'm actually here to ask what other products you might be able to provide us.  Armor, shields?  Protection for someone like me, who fights hand to hand?"

He smiled.  "A moment, officer," he said, crossing the living room to a small armoire.  "I believe I have some options that might suit you.  Won't you have a seat?"

She sat down on the velvet couch.  He returned with a wide, low box which he set on the coffee table between them.  Inside were several models of gauntlets, as well as brass knuckles.  He pulled out one of the latter, and held it for her to try on.  "This is a particular favorite of mine," he said.  "Note the spikes along the ridge.  Each one is an ingenious poison-delivery system."

Hurley winced.  "Can't say I'm a fan of poison," she said.  "But that small gauntlet looks interesting."  She pointed to one gauntlet that looked sized for the smaller races, one made of dark leather, with small metal plates on the back.  She had to keep Mr. Valcrest busy long enough for Sloane to break in through an upper window, check the place out, and get out again.

"Ah, the Bonebreaker.  You have a keen eye."  He pulled it from the box and offered it to her to try on.  "If you strike the same point multiple times, its damage doubles with each strike.  An excellent weapon for the monk class."

She slipped it on.  It fit, well, like a glove.  It was a cruel weapon, but it was well-made.

"Any of my wares can, of course, be sized for the user, and produced at quantity."

She raised an eyebrow.  "Did you make this?  Are these all produced here?"

He chuckled.  "I am but a humble merchant," he said.  "My supply is sourced only from the best crafters in Goldcliff and beyond."

Another lead she should consider.  Who was supplying this guy?  And where did he come from, anyway?  Arrold Valcrest was a well-established merchant in the city, with a good reputation, but she could find no records of him prior to about eight years ago, when he'd first moved to Goldcliff and opened shop. 

She closed her fist, as if testing the fit of the Bonebreaker.  _Hurry up, Sloane_ , she whispered in her heart. 

"I do have a dummy target," he said, "if you wish to try it out."

She forced a smile.  It would certainly buy her time, and make some noise.  "Yeah," she said, "I think I would like to take this on a test drive."

 

#

 

Sloane shimmied up the side of the building, aiming for a promising-looking second story window, keeping to the shadow cast on he brick wall by the neighboring building.  It was dusk, and shadows were lengthening.  And gods, if it weren't for the impending end of the world, she'd actually be having fun.

It's not that she badly missed her old thieving days.  But there was something about the thrill of it all, the challenge, pulling off a heist without getting caught, that made her heart pound in excitement and delight. 

She pulled out her wedge and carefully jimmied the window open.  It moved silently in its casing.  She slipped inside.

She found herself in a small but nicely-furnished bedroom.  Bed, dresser, wash stand.  She checked the dresser but found only clothes.

Outside the bedroom's open door, Hurley's voice drifted up the stairs.

She had to hurry.  Even after being refreshed inside the tree, the amount of energy they had was limited.  Stepping out of the tree now was like trying to hold her breath for as long as she could, and hoping she didn't pass out on the floor.

She felt quickly along the walls and the floor, looking for secret compartments.  Anything useful to her wouldn't be in an obvious, unlocked spot.  When the bedroom turned up nothing, she slipped out to the room across the hall, her enchanted boots reducing her footsteps to silence. 

This other room was an office of some kind.  Like the bedroom, it was clean, well-appointed, modest.  The only decoration was a fancy circular throw rug in a pattern of red and white.  She checked the desk and filing cabinet, finding mostly contracts and invoices.  She recognized the names of several clients:  they were prominent members of the Goldcliff elite, the sort of people who could afford enchanted weapons to beef up their household security.  She couldn't say she was a fan of people who lined their houses with death-traps and armed their hired goons with weapons with names like "Spinecrusher Mace" and "Rod of a Thousand Spiders."  And whatever the hell a "Prototype-Gold Standard" was.

She slid aside the paperwork and felt for false bottoms along the drawers.  Nothing.  She moved through the room, tapping the walls.

One of the wood panels shifted as she touched it.  The loose panel was cleverly concealed, blending in with the rest of the wall.  She moved her fingers lightly along the seams until she found the latch, and lifted the false panel away to reveal a hollow behind the wall.

Bingo.

Inside was a small, narrow wooden box, solid but battered and covered with a layer of dust.  Carefully she pulled it out of the wall, and opened it.

Inside, sitting on a bed of velvet, were a handful of old military medals.  A few were unidentified: a silver star on a purple ribbon, a bronze medallion with an image of a wand crossed with a sword.  But some had words enscribed on them:  "Battlemage Company - Distinguished Service," "Battle of Armos," and "Oculus Campaign - Battlemage Batallion."

They were medals from the Relic Wars.

She slipped one of the fancier medals into her pocket.  If anything, it might give Hurley a lead to tracking down information on this guy.  She put the other medals back and returned the box to its hiding place.

One quick check over the floorboards, and she should get out of here.  Hurley's voice still drifted from downstairs, calm and collected, not at all rushed.  But no sense in pushing things.  She scanned the floorboards for any unexpected seams or mis-colored wood, and then crouched down to check beneath the rug.

A magic circle was burned into the floor beneath the rug.  Her eyes widened.  Carefully she pulled the rug all the way off, revealing a seven-pointed star.  A single binding rune marked each one of the points. 

Well.  Wasn't that something?

She pulled the rug back into place.  Time to get out of here. 

A sharp pain exploded in her side.

She staggered forward, barely holding back a scream.  She just caught sight of the flash of a dagger as it was yanked free of her wooden skin.  She spun to face her attacker.

A man stood in the doorway, blocking her exit.  He was tall, with a lean, muscular frame and black hair graying at the temples.  He was dressed in black leather armor, and had the rough, scarred hands of someone who's spent his whole life fighting.  He smiled at her, like a cat who's cornered the mouse.

She swung a fist at his face.  He dodged, came in under her swing and aimed another dagger swipe at her chest.  She pulled back just in time, the dagger whiffing past her by an inch.  She kicked at his knees.  He staggered, knocked off-balance, and she went in for another punch, aiming straight at his solar plexus.  He blocked it with his own arm, hooked his leg around hers and yanked her off her feet.  She grabbed him by the front of his padded jerkin before she could fall and make noise.  Damned if she was going down that easy.

He smirked.  Gods, she knew this type.  The kind of asshole who relished a good fight.  He dropped to the rug, landing on top of her, one knee slamming into her abdomen, one arm pressing down into her neck.  And she realized then, as he held his weight down on her, that he was keeping the fight quiet.  He didn't want to alert Valcrest downstairs, any more than she did.

Or maybe he didn't want to alert Hurley.

Shit.  

"Who are you?" she gasped.

He shoved his arm harder against her neck, trying to choke the air from her.  "Apparently," he said, voice low, his mouth close to her ear, "I'm the divine fury that strikes from above."  He drew his dagger with his free hand, aiming for her side.

"And I'm a dryad," she said.  And with a burst of power, she knocked him aside, her right arm slamming into him with a tree's strength.  She leapt to her feet.  "I don't breathe through my mouth." 

She turned to run for the office window.  He swore behind her, trying to scramble back to his feet.  She grabbed the window to yank it up.

Pain lanced through her entire body.  She screamed.  Crackling red light suffused her, froze her in place, her hands still clutching the bottom of the window. 

_Mousetrap._   The word bubbled up in the back of her panicked brain as another wave of agony shot through her.  It was a term thieves used to warn each other away from certain targets—the houses that would let thieves in but not let them escape, so the owners of the house could trap and kill them personally.

The man got to his feet.  She thought, _I'm going to die._   And then, _I'm sorry, Hurley.  I love you so much._

And then she passed out.

           

#

 

Hurley had just slipped her hand into a gauntlet called the Elemental Agonizer when Sloane screamed.  She froze in place, the sound like a spear through her heart.

Arrold Valcrest raised an eyebrow.  "Oh dear," he said.  "It seems my security spell has been triggered.  What luck, that I should have an officer of the law right here!"  And he smiled at Hurley.  "Perhaps you would be willing to make an arrest?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I have an announcement to make. For the foreseeable future, I'm switching to weekly updates for this fic, and dropping new chapters on Sundays only.
> 
> Life has kind of gotten away from me these past few weeks (nothing bad, just busy), and as a result, I've burned through my buffer and I've had less time to write. I'm committed to finishing this fic, however, and I want to make sure that it's as good as it can be. With the sheer number of plot threads I'm juggling, it's easiest to make that happen if I'm writing at least 3-4 chapters ahead of where I'm posting. 
> 
> So for now, I'm going to slow down my post rate and give myself a bit more time to build up a buffer again. I'm not sure how long this will last, and I'm reluctant to put a time frame on it. If my schedule opens up and I have more regular writing time, I will switch back to twice-weekly updates. But for now, I will continue to post on Sundays.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, your support, and of course, all your comments and kudos! Even if I don't always respond, they mean the world to me! It means so much to know that people are enjoying going on this wild ride with me :) I just want to make this story the best it can possibly be.
> 
> Thanks again!


	25. Burning Down the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry makes his pitch. Lup steps into something big. Hurley strikes back.

"Okay," said Lup, "here's the plan.  Let's go over to this dude's house, and destroy the place."  She flashed Barry her most daring smile.

"Uhm.  Hmm."  His brow furrowed.  "Well, this is just an info-gathering mission, so…maybe we shouldn't burn down his house?"  Much as he loved watching Lup blow things up, and occasionally blowing things up with her, maybe now wasn't the best time.

She sighed dramatically.  "Oh, I suppose I can restrain myself.  But if he starts trouble, I am _not_ holding back."

"Fair."  He looked at the well-kept two-story brick house in the Merchants District of Goldcliff.  On paper, it was owned by a man named Arrold Valcrest.  But the Reapers' records named him differently:  this was the home of Brother Wick, High Empyreal of the Church of the Cleansing Fire.  "So, charity drive?"

"Works for me.  You take point, I slip in the back?" 

"Sounds good."  He shrugged off his Reaper robes and vanished his scythe, returning to plain old forgettable Barry Bluejeans.

He'd never had pretensions of being noticeable, like Taako and Lup.  Long before he'd left on the Starblaster mission, he'd come to accept that his was a face and bearing that didn't stick in people's minds.  And frankly, in those days he kind of preferred being left alone to do his own thing.

But now, it was his perfect disguise.  Of all his family, he was the only one who could walk down the street openly and not be stopped every ten feet by someone who recognized him from the Story.  Sure, his face had been blasted into everyone's mind, but it looked like so many other faces that he could still pass as Just Another Guy.

"How do I look?" he asked, though he already knew her answer.

Lup gave him a quick kiss.  "Fucking amazing," she said.  "Now go give this guy the full Barry Bluejeans!"

Then she teleported away, appearing in the alley next to the building.  She flashed him a quick thumbs-up and then vanished into the shadows.

He crossed the road and knocked on the door.  He heard the shuffle of feet from inside, and then the door opened on a stout, middle-aged, balding man in gray robes.  Barry's Reaper senses tingled, responding to the tag placed on the man's soul, months ago, by the authority of the Raven Queen:  this was his target, Brother Wick. 

"Hi, I'm Joe Smithson and I'm collecting for the Children's Charity Fund of Goldcliff," said Barry.  "We, uh, help place needy orphans with loving homes…"

Brother Wick stared at him, eyes widening the more he talked. 

Well, at least he got this dude's attention.  "I'm sure you're very busy, sir, but, uh, if I could have five minutes of your time to tell you about the work we're doing, and maybe if you're willing to donate a little something, the orphans sure would appreciate your thoughtfulness!  I'd appreciate it too, because we don't have the, uh, the well-known name of the big charities even though we do good work, and if I'm being honest, I haven't been able to get much for them so far today…" 

Wick stepped back, perhaps to get a better look at him.  Pretending not to notice the man's intense stare, Barry took advantage of the opening to shoulder his way into the house, radiating as much awkward obliviousness as he could.  "But I bet if more people like you knew who we were and the sort of work we were doing," he continued, "I'm sure you'd be willing to open your heart and wallet to—"

He broke off.  Taako's friend Hurley stood in the middle of the living room, next to a battered practice dummy.  She was wearing a dangerous looking gauntlet that reeked sourly of enchantment.  She looked stricken.

Ooh boy, he'd just walked into a Scene.

"It, uh, really only takes five minutes of your time," he said, not sure what else to do besides continue with the plan.  "I'll be in and out of your hair before you even know it…"

Wick still stared at him like he'd just seen a ghost.  Behind him, Hurley's gaze kept darting to the stairs.  That wasn't good.  What was Lup about to walk into?  He just hoped Hurley wouldn't give either of them away.

"So, uh…this charity…"

"Barry Bluejeans," Wick said, speaking his name slowly, reverently.

Crap.  Did Wick recognize him?

The man stepped closer to him.  "One of the Birds," he said, voice barely above a whisper.  "In my house…"  He reached up as if to touch Barry's face.

Barry stepped back, raising a hand.  "Whoa," he said, "uh, hands off the money maker, pal.  I know I get that a lot, I really—I really look like Barry Bluejeans, which I, uh, take as a compliment, but I'm Joe Smithson—"

Wick shook his head, a weird little smile on his lips.  "I'd know you anywhere," he said.  "There is no need to hide your glory in my household."

Barry did not like where this was going.  Even Hurley was giving this guy a puzzled look.  What was his deal?

And then Lup's voice rang out from upstairs, not even bothering to hide her presence.  And it was her Fight Me voice.  Both Wick and Hurley turned to look at the stairs.  Wick's eyebrows lifted, just a little.  Hurley looked horrified.

Well.  Barry wasn't sure how much longer this house would be standing.  But either way, this was gonna be one hell of a report to Kravitz.

 

#

 

Lup waited in the alley until she heard Barry's knock at the front door, heard the door open, heard him speaking to the owner of the house.  Once she was sure he'd gotten the man's attention, she floated up to the second floor, sliced open the air with her scythe, and slipped inside, straight into a neat little office.

And there was Sloane, crumpled in a heap by a window, her hands still clutching the sill as red light suffused her body.  Standing over her was a man Lup had never seen before, a grizzled human in black leather armor.  He held a dagger in one hand.

"Okay," said Lup, her hands catching fire, "step away from the elf."

The man looked at her.  She could see him making a swift calculation.  Slowly, he raised both hands.

She took a step closer. 

The moment her foot touched the circular rug in the center of the room, a wave of power ran through her.  The room disappeared.  The fire in her hands was snuffed out.  She was floating in a dark space, a soundless and featureless void. 

Fear lanced through her.  She looked around, half-expecting to see dark curtains smothering her, walling her in.  But there were no curtains.  And she still felt her body.  She still felt her heart hammering in her chest.

_This isn't the umbrastaff,_ she told herself.  _This isn't the umbrastaff._

The feeling of being _seen_ crawled over her skin.  There was something here with her, in this dark space.  Something—someone?—she knew, or used to know?  It left a sour taste in her mouth and a cold nausea in her stomach.

"Who the fuck are you?" she said into the darkness.

Silence answered her.  She felt a pressure on her shoulders, a faint sense of amusement.  And then she was back in the room with Sloane.

The man was gone.  Sloane was still unconscious.  And Lup felt like she needed to shower for a week.

Frowning, she pulled up the rug, and swore.  Of course there was a weird magic circle underneath it.  A well-crafted one, too—and there was that damned seven-pointed star.  The same star that was connected with everything in the world that was pissing her off right now.

She crossed the room, avoiding stepping over the circle, and dis-enchanted Sloane.  The dryad groaned, her eyelids fluttering.

"Hurley…" she muttered.  She made a feeble attempt to get to her feet, and collapsed back into Lup's arms.

"Don't worry, I got this," said Lup, pulling out her scythe.  "You need to get back to your tree."  She made a deft one-handed slice in the air, which opened just above the waters of the cherry tree's fountain.  The tree itself wasn't looking too great; in fact, all the greenery in the little plaza was looking pretty terrible.  But at least Sloane would be safe there.  She picked up the dryad and stepped through the portal.

A short woman with thick glasses was standing in the fountain.  She was barefoot, and the hem of her skirts was rolled up to just below her knees to keep them out of the water.  "Ah yes, Lup," she said, as if they were old friends.  "Sorry we are meeting for first time in such unpleasant circumstances, but I will watch over Miss Sloane."  She spread her hands to indicate the fountain.  "You need to go back.  Your husband, he is not safe."

Lup blinked.  "Wait, what?"  She practically dropped Sloane in alarm, but steadied herself in time, carefully lowering the dryad into the waters at the base of the tree.  "Paloma?"  She remembered this woman from her time in the umbrastaff.  Some kind of divination witch, dropping prophecies and top-notch scones over in Refuge.

"Yes," said Paloma, making shooing gestures.  "Go, go!  I've got things here!  And help is on the way."

She didn't argue.  It was one thing to fuck with her using bizarre magic circles, but if anyone lay a finger on her husband, they were in for a world of regret.  She popped back through the portal and into the upper room, hands already blazing.  She didn't even bother with subtlety anymore.  She just dashed down the stairs.  "All right, you," she shouted, "step away from my husband and put your hands where I can see them, before I blast your ass into next Tuesday!"

She burst in on a strange tableau:  a balding, middle-aged man reaching for Barry's face, while the dryad Hurley stood nearby, wearing some kind of bizarre gauntlet.  The man turned to face her, and his eyes widened. 

"Two of the seven…" he said, his voice hushed in awe.  "In my humble abode!  Will today's blessings never cease?"

"Yeah, I don't care what kind of creepy fanboy you are," said Lup, "but I am done sneaking around.  I want answers and you're gonna give them to me.  Now."

She heard a sharp intake of breath from Hurley.  She glanced at the dryad, and said quietly, "She's safe." 

Hurley visibly relaxed, and fell into a fighting stance.  "You got something on Valcrest, Lup?"

"Oh yeah.  This asshole is head of the Church of the Cleansing Fire.  And he's gonna tell me what that little cult of his is up to, or he's gonna have a seriously bad time."  She let her skull shine through her face, let the tips of her hair catch fire.

But Brother Wick seemed nonplussed by her display.  He spread his hands wide, as if he had nothing to hide.  "We are merely continuing the work that you started," he said.  "We serve in your image."

She made a noise of disgust in the back of her throat.  "I don't know about the rest of my family, but I don't recall signing off on this."

Wick smiled.  He had the air of a man who liked to think of himself as humble but was secretly very pleased with himself.  "You didn't have to," he said.  "Your actions were enough to inspire me."

"Fuck.  You."  And she blasted him with fire.

It was meant to be a warning shot, a brush of flame against his shoulder.  Something to let him know who was in charge here.  But the fire didn't even reach him.  It stopped inches from his body, losing all momentum and hanging in the air, a small flickering ball of flame. 

Okay.  That was new.

Wick stared at the ball in wonder, apparently just as surprised as Lup was.  He reached up one hand and took the ball from mid-air.  It danced around his fingers, lively and utterly harmless.

"Of course," he said in a hushed voice.  "Of course.  Why would he let you hurt me?"

"Uh, Lup?" said Barry.  "This isn't good…" 

Behind him, Hurley was staring in obvious concern at the fire.  She took a cautious step back.

Wick's gaze snapped to her face.  "You know," he said.  "You _must_ know."

"Answer the question, asshole!"

He shook his head, like he was the one being disappointed.  And then he began to chant.

"Okay, no chanting," she said, raising her fists again. 

He didn't stop.  His eyes closed, and he clasped his arms across his chest.  Words in Infernal dropped from his lips.  Lines of magic, glowing softly red, radiated out from where he stood, creeping across the floor and up the walls.

"I said _stop it._ "  She let the full command of her Reaper Voice fill the room, this time aiming a Scorching Ray straight at him.  It dissipated against him, the orange glow sinking harmlessly into his chest.  Now thoroughly incensed, she let loose one fireball after the other, hoping to break through whatever weird shielding he had, or at least break his concentration.  But he absorbed each burst of flame, and the Infernal chant kept building below the fiery roar.

"Lup!" Barry shouted.  "Stop!"

She cut off the fire.  Hurley lunged into her opening, one gauntleted fist slamming straight into Arrold Valcrest's jaw.

Lup saw the impact, heard the sound of metal-clad fist hitting cheek.  But Wick didn't stagger back, didn't even turn his head.  As if there'd been no force behind her punch.

Hurley stepped back.  Where she'd struck his cheek, soft white lines of impact glowed.  They sank into his skin and vanished.  Wick smiled at her.

"Every blow you strike," he said, "only strengthens the lord of battle."

Glowing lines appeared on his skin, growing brighter and brighter.  The red-orange of Lup's flames, the white light of Hurley's blow.  Lup shouted.  Barry grabbed Hurley, had just a split second to angle himself between her and Arrold--

The room exploded in flame.

Lup cast Control Flames, sending it away from herself and her husband.  Barry hunched around Hurley, shielding the dryad from the fire.  Lup sent a plume spinning out the front window, where it dissipated harmlessly.  She heard a few people cry out in alarm outside, but nobody had been in range. 

The fire was extinguished, leaving only the bitter tang of ash on the air.  Everything in the living room was lightly charred, except the people in it.  Wallpaper curled away from the walls, scorch marks blackened the furniture, and the metal gauntlets were half-melted. 

The red lines of power from Wick's chanted spell had fully covered the walls, floor, and stairs.

She gritted her teeth, glad she'd burst the front window.  Scaring people away from the house was probably a good idea, because she didn't know what this bastard was gonna try next.  Gods, she wished Lucretia were here.  She could really do with some good old abjuration magic right now.

He smiled.

Lup readied herself.  "Don't--"

A dagger sailed straight at her shoulder.  She caught it with a Mage Hand before it could land.

The man in black stood at the base of the stairs, drawing his sword.

"Oh," she said, "you really want a throwdown?"

The man in black shrugged one shoulder.  "No," he said.  "Just your attention."

Wick spoke a single word in Infernal.  And he vanished.

Everything else vanished with him.  The furniture, the box of gauntlets, the man in black, even the smoking curtains.  The lines of red energy faded, and Lup found herself standing with Barry and Hurley in a perfectly empty house.

"Okay," she said.  "What the fuck was that?"

Hurley gasped.  "That's why we could never get the drop on these guys!" she said.  "They have some sort of…large-scale teleportation spell."  She looked around.  "Wherever the church is, he can just clean it out at a moment's notice."  She tore off the gauntlet in disgust and threw it to the floorboards. 

"Well, what now?" said Barry.  "He was saying some weird things that, uh…I think we better regroup and put our heads together."

"You said this person was the head of the Church of the Cleansing Fire?" said Hurley.  "Because I think we should compare notes--" 

The door burst open with a crash of splinters.  Standing there was Jess the Beheader, gleaming axe in hand.

"Everyone, get out now!" she roared.  "This place is gonna blow!"

"Wha--" Barry began, but Lup was already grabbing him by the hood of his robe and dashing for the door.  Jess stood aside, waving one hand and yelling _"Go go go!"_

Lup glanced behind her.  Hurley stood frozen, looking uncertainly at the stairs.  "Sloane—"

"She's at the tree!" Lup shouted.  "Let's go!"

Hurley nodded and ran after them.  Jess was shouting at people in the street, telling them to get away from the building, waving her axe around for emphasis.

Wick's house exploded.  Lup was knocked forward on the cobblestones in a wave of heat and noise.  Barry hit the street beside her, grunting.  Hurley landed in a controlled roll on her other side.

"Whoa," said Jess, staring at the fire.  "I, uh, don't suppose any of you could put that out?"

Lup pushed herself to her feet and turned to look at the burning building.  "I got this," she said, rolling up her sleeves and pulling out her wand.  Water wasn't exactly her specialty, but she could conjure up a Tidal Wave above the building.  It wasn't as if there was anything left in there to save.  "Let me guess…Paloma sent you?"

Jess nodded.  "Yeah.  Looks like she wasn't kidding about a 'great catastrophe.'"

Lup waved her wand, drawing up the magic for a bomb-ass wall of water to come crashing down on what was left of the home of Arrold Fucking Valcrest.  She'd take great pleasure in wiping the place off the map.

But just as the magic was gathering on the tip of her wand, another explosion tore the air behind her.  She whipped around to see a pillar of smoke rising from several blocks away. 

Another explosion, in the other direction.  And another.  Plumes of smoke were rising from all around the city.  People were beginning to run, shout, scream. 

In the distance, the warning bell in the tower of the Militia Headquarters began to ring.  And the bell's last ring disappeared in the roar of another explosion, as the tower itself collapsed in a plume of dust and flame.

"Oh no," said Hurley, voice faint.  _"Oh no…"_

 

#

 

Brother Wick appeared in the basement of the abandoned Pelorian temple, in a flare of red light.  Piles of furniture manifested with him, dropping to the floor with a clatter and the smell of burning. 

Brother Fury stumbled beside him, trying to find his footing in the pile.  It looked like Wick had pulled the ripcord on the whole damn house.

"Get these items cleaned and organized," said Wick to Brother Gear, who had appeared almost instantly at his side.  "Dispose of anything that cannot be salvaged.  And somebody get me Sister Herald."

"Right away, High Empyreal!" Brother Gear simpered.

Brother Wick stepped out of the pile, brushing a bit of soot off of his robes.  "Brother Fury," he said, "are your holy sites armed and ready?  We are going to Phase 3."

Brother Fury nodded.  His sites had been fully armed for the past three days, with men posted near each one to make sure they stayed that way.  "Phase 3, then," he said.  He kept his face stony and his voice level, but beneath the surface, his blood hummed through his veins.  He'd always been fond of the big moves, the grand gestures that didn't so much nudge the scales as slam a fist into them.

"Begin right away, then," said Wick, dismissing him.

Fury took the stairs up to the bell tower two at a time.  The place commanded a dizzying view of the city of Goldcliff, with its massive bank and its Militia bell tower and the glimmering desert sands beyond the city walls.  He took a moment to admire the view.

He'd always thought his nickname in Wick's little cult had been ill-fitting and ironic.  "The Righteous Fury Which Strikes from Above and Cleanses the Weak from the World."  He certainly did enjoy cleansing the weak, but he'd always preferred striking from below.  From deep underground, where his men had hidden clusters of some of the most powerful bombs in the world.

He thumbed open his Stone of Farspeech, bringing open a multichannel to all his site guards.  "This is Fury," he said.  "Phase 3 is being initiated.  Set the timers and withdraw from the blast radius.  Cleansing in one minute."

He counted five acknowledgments from his men, ended the transmission, and waited.

When the first blast rose from Wick's house, Fury smiled.  He hoped at least one of those bitches was still in the house when it blew.  He knew from the Story that Lup was a lich and at worst, he could only burn away her corporeal body.  But the thought of killing someone who was like a sibling to Magnus Burnsides still brought a smile to his lips.

He climbed up on the stone banister and watched as more and more explosions went off.  Here, high up in the bell tower, he could see his work bloom like flowers all across the city, the chain of explosions ending with the Militia tower itself collapsing like a felled tree. 

The wind brushed across him; it felt good to be standing so high above the citizens of Goldcliff, to watch them scurry like panicked ants beneath his feet.  Here, in the heights of power, was where he was meant to be.

He didn't get to be the Governor of Raven's Roost by being squeamish about heights.  Or about tearing them down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mic drop*


	26. The Turning of the Gears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterling makes a decision. Barry panics. Paloma watches for trouble.

( **2 Weeks Ago – Letter by Express Falcon Courier)**

 

Lord Apollo,

I write to you in troubling times and with no small urgency.  As you are already doubtless aware, the gods have disappeared, leaving our lands and skies unpredictable and chaotic.  I am doing what I can to hold Neverwinter together and ensure that my people are fed and protected.  But this may be a greater task than can be handled by any single lord or mayor acting alone.  I am therefore suggesting an alliance, so that we may better coordinate emergency response and share our resources so that neither of our cities goes without.

Director Lucretia, alas, has precious little insight to give us at this time.  The Birds have neither the Light nor a plan, other than to attempt to mitigate the damage and learn what they can about this divine disappearance.  While I consider the Bureau a valuable ally, I cannot sit idly and wait for them to come up with a solution, or rely on their agents alone to manage the large-scale efforts required to manage the fallout.

I am happy to host a gathering at my estate to discuss terms of an alliance.  Please reply as soon as you can, for I fear that the current situation will only worsen with every passing day.

Yours,

Lord Artemis Sterling

 

#

**(12 Days Ago – Letter by Express Falcon Courier)**

 

Lord Artemis,

You have made such a request once before.  In the great drought of '74, you sent a series of letters demanding an "alliance," to help both our cities.  In reality, this was a one-sided agreement where you were to receive manpower and supplies to fix a city whose deprivation had only been exacerbated by gross mismanagement.  Meanwhile, Goldcliff received nothing, on the grounds that—and I quote—we "could simply buy anything we needed."  You went to great lengths to remind me that "Neverwinter is the more important city."  And when I mounted a protest, on the very reasonable grounds that my people could not eat gold, Neverwinter troops showed up at my gates to 'requisition' my stores.  And no one on the Council of Lords raised a finger in my defense, on the grounds that our so-called alliance allowed for the sharing of resources. 

Sound familiar?

As it stands, my good Lord Artemis, I have no need of another "alliance" at this time.  I have stores enough to feed my people, and the means to protect them.  And I plan to do exactly that.  I will not be bullied a second time by a man who assumes his will is Law. 

If Neverwinter is truly in desperate need of resources, well.  Yours is a rich city.  You can simply buy anything you need.

Yours,

Lord Apollo Coronus

 

#

 

**(10 Days Ago – Letter by Express Falcon Courier)**

 

Lord Apollo, 

I was a foolish child.  But I am not one anymore, and now is not the time for you to act like one.  With this strange wyrm in the sky, I fear the situation will only grow worse.  People will die.  We cannot wait this out alone; an alliance is our only hope. 

Now is the time to put aside petty insults and come together.  I can offer my guarantee that this will be a partnership of equals.  But it cannot work if you insist on sulking in the corner.

Yours,

Lord Artemis Sterling

 

#

 

**(8 Days Ago – Letter by Express Falcon Courier)**

 

Lord Artemis,

I apologize, I did not realize that your stealing food from my hungry people was such a small thing, and that my bringing up my very real concern is tantamount to "sulking."  Your mysterious magical malady may have aged you twenty years in one day, but that does not make you suddenly my senior in experience and wisdom. 

Look to your own people, Artemis.  I shall look to mine.

Yours,

Lord Apollo Coronus

 

#

 

**(8 Days Ago - Stone of Farspeech call, secure frequency)**

 

"Agent Sunshadow, reporting in."

"This is Lord Artemis.  What is your status?"

"Green, my lord."

"Proceed."

"I fear I have troubling news, my lord.  Mayor Coronus has seen fit to spend a large amount of money outfitting the Militia with brand-new ordnance.  Enhanced blades, enchanted armor.  There have even been rumors in some of the more elite circles, of larger and more destructive war machines being produced on his coin."

"War machines?  Whatever for?"

"Unclear, my lord.  Speculation in the courts is that he is planning something big--a campaign against someone or something--but nobody knows what."

"A campaign?  Who could he possibly be targeting, at a time like this?  And why?"

"If I may venture a possibility, my lord?"

"You may."

"Goldcliff has become restless.  But nothing unites a people better than a military campaign.  And my investigations suggest that the city's stores of food may not be as abundant as the mayor publicly claims."

"..."

"My lord, how should I proceed?"

"…I want to know everything you can find out about his new weapons, especially his war machines.  You have an ear with the Militia?"

"I would be a terrible agent if I did not, my lord."

"Then find out what you can.  I want an update twenty-four hours from now."

"Yes, my lord."

"Artemis out."

 

#

 

**(8 Days Ago - Direct Message sent by Magic Missive remote transcription)**

 

Lord Apollo,

Perhaps I was overly dismissive of your concerns.  I may not have the years you have; but believe me when I speak only out of concern for both our peoples.  I advise you not to make any hasty decisions.

I think it best if we meet in person.  Name the time and place, and I will be there.

Yours,

Lord Artemis Sterling

 

#

 

**(7 days Ago - Stone of Farspeech call, secure frequency)**

 

"Agent Sunshadow, reporting in."

"This is Lord Artemis.  What is your status?"

"Green, my lord."

"Proceed."

"I was able to connect with my mole at the Goldcliff Militia.  The city has ordered enough supplies to arm and armor their main forces and their reserves, in addition to five wizardfire cannon, an ironclad battering ram, and armored battlewagons."

"…I see.  And have these been ordered for a specific purpose?"

"Supposedly, the defense of the city, my lord."

"Defense?  From what?  Is there actually a concern that Neverwinter will march on him?"

"Unclear, sir."

"Well, keep your ear to the ground.  This takes full priority.  I want to know what he's planning."

"Yes, my lord."

"Artemis, out."

 

#

 

**(5 Days Ago -** **Direct Message sent by Magic Missive remote transcription)**

 

Lord Apollo,

I am sending another missive, as I have not heard from you.  Please do not be foolish, Apollo.  Neverwinter is being flooded by this endless storm, and I cannot imagine that Goldcliff is much better off.  We must stand together.

Yours,

Lord Artemis Sterling

 

#

 

**(4 Days Ago - Lord Apollo Coronus's private office)**

"Agent Seven." 

"You wished to see me, my Lord Apollo?"

"What is all this bleating that our friend Artemis is doing?  What's his game?  I've told him no a dozen times, and yet he keeps sending me missives full of pleas and insults and barely-concealed threats."

"He is becoming desperate, my lord.  My ears in the courts speaks of it.  He hardly sleeps, he barely takes any food.  They say Neverwinter is in terrible shape.  The streets have begun to flood, the crops are rotting in the fields, and they just lost a whole granary to the flooding."

"Figures as much.  And he was the one claiming I'm being desperate?"

"…"

"What's the status of his troops?  Their morale, their weaponry?"

"Not great, my lord.  They are as weary and dispirited as the rest of Neverwinter.  But they still number many, and they are as well-armed as Neverwinter troops ever are.  If he were to force the issue, it is not a threat to dismiss lightly."

"Damn Sterling!  He always was a pain in my ass."

"My lord, I would advise caution.  Lord Sterling has become savvier in the past few years, and I fear that if he chooses to strike at Goldcliff in order to bolster his failing stores, he may not strike openly.  Not at first."

"…What are you suggesting, agent?"

"He likely has agents in the city who are working for him.  We must assume he already knows about the riots today at the temple of Pelor.  He may attempt to inflame the people's panic even more, and then strike when we are vulnerable."

"…Keep an eye on him, agent.  I want to know everything he does.  If he so much as glances at a map of Goldcliff, I want to hear about it."

"Yes, my lord."

"Dismissed."

 

#

 

**(4 Days Ago -** **Direct Message sent by Magic Missive remote transcription)**

 

Lord Artemis,

Let me make one thing clear.  You are in no position to make demands or threats.  If even one Neverwinter soldier comes within eyesight of my city walls, I will not hesitate to take swift action to protect my city.  So I will advise you to not make any stupid or rash decisions.

Yours,

Lord Apollo Coronus

 

#

 

**(4 Days Ago - Direct Message sent by Magic Missive remote transcription)**

 

Lord Apollo,

What are you talking about?  I have no intention of sending soldiers to Goldcliff.  I ask only for your freely given alliance.

Yours,

Lord Artemis Sterling

 

#

**(3 Days Ago - Direct Message sent by Magic Missive remote transcription)**

 

Lord Apollo,

That's what you said the last time.  And for the last time, my answer is no.  I will not fall for your tricks anymore, Sterling.  Do not send me any more missives.

-Lord Apollo Coronus

 

#

 

**(Today - Direct Message sent by Magic Missive remote transcription)**

 

To the backstabbing scoundrel who calls himself Lord of Neverwinter:

How dare you.  You bald-faced liar, you coward!  I will bury Neverwinter for this attack!

-Lord Apollo Coronus

 

#

 

**(Today - Direct Message sent by Magic Missive remote transcription)**

 

Lord Apollo,

You cannot believe that I am behind this, Apollo.  This is an unprecedented tragedy, likely enacted by your own desperate people.  But I swear to you now, Apollo, if you bring war to my gates, I will answer in kind. 

So be it, Apollo.  I will see you on the field of battle.

-Lord Artemis Sterling

 

#

 

"Shit," said Barry, with feeling.  "Shit shit shit!"

Lup sliced a hole in the air, cutting a portal directly to Hurley's tree.  Barry ran through, carrying the limp dryad in his arms.  The poor woman had passed out the moment the explosions went off, and he could see why the moment the withered tree came into view.

"I wish my axe could cut portals in the air," Jess grumbled, climbing through after them.  "Woulda saved me a lotta running.  Hey Paloma!"  She waved at the short woman sitting on the edge of the cherry tree's fountain.  "We got 'er!"

Paloma was on her feet already, gesturing with her walking stick.  "Put her in the tree," she said.  "Hurry!"

Barry splashed through the water and laid Hurley at the foot of the cherry tree, between the roots.  A figure already lay there, vaguely Sloane-shaped; she reached out to embrace Hurley, and drew her close.  Hurley's features faded as she merged with the tree.

"So, yeah," said Lup.  "I don't know what's going on, but the city's exploding now, so we should probably do something about that."

Paloma shook her head.  "The gears are quickening," she said ominously.  "The machine is beginning to move, faster than I expected."

"Uh," said Barry, "what machine?"

"The machine of war," said Paloma. 

"Nice vaguebooking there, Paloma," said Lup.  "But we should do something about this _now."_

"I am divination expert.  Also scone magic.  Not really great for putting out fires, yes?"  She pointed her walking stick down the street.  "But if you want to help, one of the fires is getting dangerously close to a distillery.  All that booze will make nasty explosion."

"On it!"  Lup leapt into the air, already preparing another Tidal Wave spell in her hands.

Barry hesitated, wanting to help but feeling pulled in a bunch of different directions.  Too many things were happening at once, people were screaming and smoke was filling the air and he heard the distant rumble as a damaged building finally gave way. 

But Lup.  He could always follow Lup, and know he was going in the right direction.

"I'll, uh--follow, and see if I can get people away from the danger," he said.

Paloma grabbed his sleeve.  "Good idea," she said.  "And when you are done…"  She pulled something small out of a pocket of her dress, and slipped it into his hand.  It was some kind of military medal, silver tarnished with age.  "Sloane retrieved this from the house.  The boy detective has flown away, and Hurley must rest, and Militia has other problems to deal with.  But maybe you and Lup can figure out this puzzle, yes?"

He slipped the medal into his pocket without looking too closely at it.  He'd deal with it later.  "Yeah, uh, thanks?"

Paloma smiled, her sun-darkened face a map of wrinkles.  "Jess will go with you," she said.  "To help with the people-herding."

"What'll you do?" asked Jess, hefting her battle-axe as if she was ready to break through a dozen more doors today.

Paloma tapped her walking stick on the cobblestones.  "I will do what I have come here to do, old friend," she said.  "Tell people where to go.  And protect this tree."

 

#

 

Lady Aeshia Silverthorn liked to think of herself as a refined sort of person.  A proper lady who never got her hands dirty, but instead wielded all the levers of power with silk-gloved hands.  The levers of power were so finicky, after all.  One must be careful, attuned to the slightest nuances and shifts.

So when Lord Sterling summoned her, she came with a trunk of her best samples and blueprints.  A merchant must always be prepared to show off her best side.

She had her assistant set the trunk to one side of the office.  Available, but not pushing it.  Lord Sterling looked out on his waterlogged city through the large windows in his office.

"Lady Silverthorn," he said.  "You must be familiar with your competitors in this business, correct?"

She smiled.  "Of course, my lord."

"Do you know who supplies the city of Goldcliff?"

"Arrold Valcrest," she said, waving one hand as if dismissing him entirely.  "He is good at what he does.  But not as good as me."

"And what do you know of the products he offers?"

"Brute force, cruelty, and showmanship.  Both weapons and armor designed for maximum damage."

Lord Sterling turned to her, frowning.  "And what do you offer that would be suitable against such weapons and armor?"

She gestured to her assistant, who brought the trunk forward and opened the lid.  "My lord, you know me," she said.  "My weapons and armaments are far more refined.  Designed for speed and subtlety."  She lifted a basket-hilt rapier and held it out for him to examine.  "The steel has been infused with mithril for maximum flexibility and durability.  It can be layered with my special patented True Strike enchantment, increasing the likelihood it will strike a weak spot or gap in the armor."

"Useful.  But I am concerned more with defensive fighting," he said.

"Then perhaps my lord would be interested in my new line of weapons and armor, specifically designed for what I call 'pre-emptive defense'?"  She held out a gauntlet whose metal shimmered:  translucent, ghost-like.  "Designed to increase speed and buff defenses, this line of armor and weapons is designed to end the fight before it can really begin."  She gestured, summoning a wooden dummy from the aether.  "Perhaps a demonstration?

Lord Sterling nodded.  Her assistant slipped on the gauntlet, took up a position ten feet away from the dummy, and aimed a punch at its torso.  He lunged with such speed that his body was just a silvery blur.  The dummy shattered.

Lord Sterling's eyebrows lifted.  He was silent.

"My lord," she said, "you seem unimpressed."

He shook his head.  "It's a fine piece of work," he admitted slowly.  He looked like he was about to say something else, but he fell silent.  Behind him, the thunder of the never-ending storm rumbled.

"My lord," she said carefully, "may I speak freely?"

He nodded.

"I take it from your line of questions that you fear an impending attack.  War is coming, and it's the last thing you wish for right now."

"War is never something to be wished for," he said.

She smiled.  "But it is coming, regardless.  What you need, my lord, is something _decisive._   Something that can stand up to whatever Goldcliff can throw at our city, and then some."

He regarded her in silence for a moment.  He nodded. 

She reached into the trunk and pulled out a roll of blueprints.  "Then perhaps my lord might be interested in something _special…"_

Lord Sterling leaned forward, curiosity piqued.

Less than an hour later, she walked out of the office and ordered her carriage to take her back home.  She was well away from Sterling's mansion, the rain beating ceaselessly on the carriage roof, when she called up High Empyreal Wick. 

"High Empyreal," she said, "this is Sister Rapier.  The silver fish has been netted.  Project Heavenstrike has been fully funded."

 

#

 

When it came right down to brass tacks, Brother Fury had to admire the whole operation.  Brother Wick conducted it with all the precision, flexibility, and ruthlessness of the best generals.  He'd still gut the bastard when the time came; but for now, he was content to watch as Brother Wick built the machine that would one day be his.

A knock sounded at the door of Wick's current temporary office.  By instinct, Brother Fury rested his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword.  But it was just Herald standing in the doorway, her head bowed.

"Ah, Sister Herald," said Wick.  "Come in."

"High Empyreal," she said, bowing gracefully.  The elven woman did everything gracefully.  "You summoned me?"

Wick nodded.  "I wish to congratulate you on your hard work.  Thanks to you, Mayor Coronus has declared war, and Lord Sterling has responded in kind.  Sister Rapier has just informed me that Sterling has fully committed to Heavenstrike.  Very soon, the world will be bathed in war, to the everlasting glory of He Who Shines Above the Battlefield."

Sister Herald bowed her head again, silvery hair cascading over her shoulders.  "I live only to serve our great lord," she said.

Now, Sister Herald, on the other hand….Fury would have to keep an eye on her.  She was a consummate spy with a dozen names and identities.  She was Sunshadow, a spy sent by Artemis Sterling to watch Mayor Coronus and the various Goldcliff elite; and then she became a double-agent with the code name Agent Seven, working as Coronus's spymaster and feeding him information on Sterling.  But neither of them knew that she was ultimately in Wick's pocket, subtly manipulating both lords with information that was misleading but just plausible enough.

She was every bit as savvy as Brother Wick, and kept her cards close to her chest.  Fury had never been able to determine with confidence if she was as deeply fanatical as Wick, or if she stayed only because she believed this was the winning side.

Loyalty was, sadly, such a fickle thing.  A good leader could get so much done if he didn't have to worry about who was loyal and who wasn't.  It was always best, in Fury's opinion, to get rid of the doubters the moment they showed themselves.  Like tearing out weeds before their roots could really spread.

So.  Best to get rid of Sister Herald before he made his move against Brother Wick.  She might be a skilled ally, but she was too much of an unknown for Fury's liking.

"Know that He looks down on you in pride, Sister Herald," said Brother Wick. 

She tilted her face up, as if she could see her god grinning down on her from the ceiling.  Her gaze flicked briefly to Fury, and she gave him the smallest of smiles, enigmatic and knowing.

As if she knew exactly what his game was.  Or wanted him to think that she did. 

He frowned.  Yes, she would have to go as soon as it was convenient.


	27. We Need to Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz checks the archives. Davenport causes a scene. Cyrrollalee just wants everyone to get along, is that so much to ask?

Kravitz found the archival chests in a side room of the Archives.  Rows of chests of various sizes stood neatly on shelves, oak banded with iron or steel, each one locked.  He had no idea what most of these contained; the Archives kept what needed to be kept, and such things weren't always paper records.

He found the chest that Mr. Nim's key belonged to.  It was one of the smaller boxes, plain and unassuming, its only mark the number inscribed above the lock.  It was very old, covered in dust.  He brushed some of it away, unlocked it, and opened the lid.

He stared at the box's contents for a long time.  Recognition came slowly, like the tide.  He sighed, running his fingers down his face, uncertain whether he wanted to thank Mr. Nim or curse him.

The old man knew him so well.  Better than he knew himself, sometimes.

He took a deep breath, and reached for the violin.

The wall-mounted intercom crystal lit up.  Barry's voice filled the room.  "Uh, Kravitz, could you report to the main office?  We got a--a _situation._ "

Damn it.  He hit the wall button.  "On my way," he said.  Hefting the chest, he headed back up to the fortress's main tower, moving in double time.

Barry and Lup looked like they'd been to battle.  Their cloaks were singed, their hair was mussed, and Barry's t-shirt was stained with sweat and soot.  "What happened?" he asked, setting the chest down on his desk.

"Uh…everything?" said Barry.  "I don't even know where to begin--"

"Well, Goldcliff's on fire," said Lup.  "Or, was.  We put the fires out.  But some asshole had planted a bunch of bombs all over the city.  And I'm pretty sure it's the Church of the Cleansing Fire behind it, because Arrold Valcrest's house was the first place to blow.  But only _after_ he conveniently teleported himself and all his possessions out of there."

Kravitz was already summoning the Book of the Dead.  He scanned the last few pages, at a list of a hundred and fifty seven names just added to the rolls.  Death by fire, explosion, collapsed building. 

He frowned.  This was bad, on a dozen different levels.  The leader of the Church of the Cleansing Fire--living under the pseudonym of Arrold Valcrest, known to his followers as Brother Wick--was a savvier opponent than he'd realized.  And if the Church was behind this attack…what was the goal of it?  Cults didn't just pull something off on this scale for no reason.  In his experience, large-scale death and destruction was usually the prelude to something else:  a sacrifice for a ritual, perhaps.  Or an offering to a god, in exchange for some favor. 

The Church worshipped a god of war.  But the people of Goldcliff hadn't died on the battlefield.

"Where were the strikes?" he asked, afraid of the answer. 

"Militia headquarters," said Barry.  "A lot of them were out on patrol, trying to contain the riots, but a lot of them were in there."

"Also, the East Port gate," said Lup, "the bank, and the train station.  Plus Valcrest's house."

Kravitz flicked his hand, and the Book of the Dead vanished.  "Those are calculated vital targets," he said.  "Security, transportation, finances.  They're throwing the city into chaos."

"The city was already pretty chaotic," said Lup.  "It's more like throwing a bucket of oil on a bonfire."

"But what's their endgame?" asked Barry. 

"That's exactly what I'm wondering," said Kravitz.  "If Valcrest had simply wanted to cover his trail, he'd have destroyed his house and left it at that.  But this was planned well in advance, to strike a major blow at the city.  Is this a coup attempt?  Is the Church hoping to take over Goldcliff in the chaos?"

A tingling in the back of his head alerted him to an unregistered entry into the Astral Plane.  He turned towards the window just in time to see someone falling through a portal and splashing down into the sea.

_Merle Fucking Highchurch._

He sighed, pinching his brow.  He really needed to tell that dwarf to stop casting Gate.  The Astral Sea was not a dumping ground for Merle Highchurch to drop his opponents into whenever he pleased.

"I'll get that one," he said.

When he heard no response behind him, he turned.  Barry and Lup were gone on Parley, leaving behind misty outlines vaguely shaped like them. 

Well.  This was a hell of a time to call a family meeting.  He wondered if Merle had stumbled onto something big.

He was halfway out over the sea, aiming straight for the figure splashing in the water, when he wondered why he hadn't also been summoned into Parley.

 

#

 

"So, to wrap this up:  a sports league would be totally kickass, and take this town to the next level!  Whooo!"  Garagos let out an impressive war cry that filled the town hall. 

"An impassioned speech," remarked Mayor Io.  The platinum dragon sat beside the town hall, his head peeking in through the retractable roof, which was partially opened to allow him and the other dragons to participate.  "Now, we shall hear commentary from the public."

A tall man in battered, practical-looking plate armor stood up.  "While the idea of friendly competition is a noble one," said Tempus, voice deep and solid as a brick wall, "I do not think Garagos has the wisdom or restraint to manage a league without it descending into chaos."

"What's wrong with a little chaos?" said one of Tiamat's five heads.  "We might get a little excitement in this town for once.  And we enjoy watching you little creatures beat each other up.  It amuses us."

"Just last week," said the Red Knight, "I had to break up three bar brawls, all of them started by Garagos.  Do you really want to give him such leave to run an entire league?"

"Hey, that's unfair!" said Garagos, who made to point a scimitar at her, only to remember his hands were empty.  Weapons were forbidden in Town Hall.  "I won those fights fair and square!  And everyone had a great time!"

"It was pretty fun, smashing that chair over Dugmaren's head!" boomed Hanseath.

"It wasn't fun for _me_ ," grumbled Dugmaren, pushing his glasses up his broad nose.  The dwarven god of scholars was seated to one side of the dais, taking down the minutes.

"Counterpoint," said Pan, lounging on a chair near the back.  "Giving Garagos a sports league will give him a place where he can have a little fun with others, where it's not trampling on anyone else's garden, if you get me."

"A valid argument," Io rumbled.  "Tempus, as you are a proponent of fair competition and nobility in warfare, would you object to being co-lead of such a sports league?"

Tempus raised both eyebrows.  Garagos sighed loudly.

"All right," said Tempus.

"Fiiiine," said Garagos, rolling his eyes.

"Very well.  All in favor of starting a sports league for the town, to be co-led by Garagos and Tempus, say 'aye'…"

The voting commenced, with Primus counting ayes and nays.  Primus was easy for Davenport to recognize; he was a robotic glowing cube, once a god of order and the lord of the plane of Mechanus.  Back at the IPRE campus, a handful of Davenport's engineering colleagues had payed homage to Primus, especially just before running an experiment or testing a new piece of equipment.  Now here he was beside the dais, counting votes and managing the agenda.

The motion passed.  Garagos flexed and whooped some more before being ushered back to his seat.

"Next on the agenda," said Primus, in their tinny, monotone voice.  "Our newest citizen.  Davenport.  Please come to the dais.  And introduce yourself."

Garl gave him a thumbs-up.  Davenport went to the stage at the front of the hall.  The gathered gods watched him expectantly:  the humanoid ones from the folding chairs in front of the stage, and the dragons from above.

"Good evening," he said.  "I'm Davenport.  I'm new in town, recently arrived from…from the war front.  Some of you have already met me."

"And what is your portfolio?" asked Io.

Davenport blinked.  "My portfolio?"  A portfolio was what gods presided over.  Strange, that they still used the term, having forgotten their divinity. 

"Your occupation," said Primus.  "Alternatively:  role, skillset, function.  Do you require further clarification.  Reply yes/no."

"No, I—um, I'm a—"  A captain with no authority.  A pilot without a starship.  He swallowed around a sudden knot in his throat.  "A bond engineer?" he tried.

Green light began to glow between the metal plates of Primus's body.  "Record updated.  Name: Davenport.  Portfolio: Bond Engineering."

He winced.  He really hoped that when the gods got their memories back, they didn't look back at this moment as him claiming to be a god.

He glanced over his hand-written notes, and took a deep breath.  Now or never.  He looked out at the gathered gods.  "I bring a message from the war front.  In your absence, everything has begun to fall apart.  You—all of us here—we need to go back."

He'd chosen his words carefully, made them fit within the narrative the gods already believed.  But they looked at him as if he'd grown a second head.  The open hall filled with the sound of muttering and whispering.

"Are you mad?" asked the Red Knight, narrowing her eyes.

"Going back would be a foolish and suicidal endeavor," said Tempus.

"We'd all be killed!" squeaked Dugmaren, leaping from his stool beside the dais.  "We managed to barely escape with our lives last time, but we may not be so lucky again!"

"Haven't we earned a rest?" asked Yondalla, the matriarch of the halfling pantheon.  "The time for fighting is over.  We're home now.  We're safe."

"I know I'm asking a lot," said Davenport, pushing through their objections.  "But we need you.  All of you!  This isn't a paradise, or a retirement home.  It's a prison, and we need to find a way out—"

But the protests and rebuttals grew louder and more strident, overwhelming his voice, until Io thumped his tail and called "Order, order!  That is enough."  The hall quieted into a reluctant not-quite-silence.                 

And then, loud enough for everyone to hear, came a single snarled word from the back of the room.  _"Typical."_

Several heads turned to look at Kurtulmak. 

It was obvious he was waiting for the attention.  And when he had it, he shrugged and tossed his scaled head.  "Isn't it just like Garl Glittergold to bring someone here just to cause a disruption?  It's like he revels in ruining things for everyone else.  And now he's got this one—"  He leveled a claw at Davenport.  "—doing his work for him!"

"Oh, for crying out loud," said Garl, rolling his eyes.  "This has got nothing to do with—"

"I'm lodging a formal complaint with the Homeowner's Association!" Kurtulmak snapped, leaping to his feet.

"Kurtulmak," said Dugmaren, baffled, "we don't…everyone here _is_ the Homeowner's Association.  We all live here.  And while Davenport's statements were, ah, startling, I hardly think that qualifies as intentionally causing a disruption…"  He glanced up at Io for confirmation.

Kurtulmak's eyes narrowed.  "Fine," he growled, "if you will not listen to my complaints, I shall start a new Homeowner's Association!  A better one!  With gambling and drinking, and a proper skull pit!"

"Hey, can I join your new HOA?" asked Garagos.  "Because that sounds wicked cool."

"What?!"  Now Tempus was on his feet.  "You can't just start a new HOA!"

"Why can't I?" snarled Kurtulmak.  "Do your precious 'rules' say I cannot?!"

"I like the cut of this one's jib," said one of Tiamat's heads.  The other four heads nodded.  "I, too, would like to join this superior HOA."

"Yeah, I'm with Party HOA," said Reggie Fitzpatrick, god of parties.

"I forbid it," Io boomed.  "We shall not split this town in twain.  We must remain united, and work together."

"There is a balanced beauty.  In the number two," said Primus.  "But nothing compares.  To the existential purity.  Of number one."

"Phrasing, man!" said Pan, while beside him, Raven pinched the bridge of her nose in a gesture of quiet despair.

Once again, voices rose in argument and counter-argument.  Several of the gods got to their feet, shouting each other down and causing a ruckus.  Tempus loomed over Garagos, chest out, while Garagos screamed in his face.  Corellon and Lolth exchanged cold insults with restrained Elvish dignity.  Dugmaren was stomping his foot and making insistent references to "the rules" while Primus kept repeating "Illogical!  Illogical!" in the background.  Pelor was making proclamations to anyone who would listen.

And Davenport was suddenly struck with a horrible realization.  Even without their powers, the gods were still who they were, and the fractures between them were old and deep.  The peace in this town was incredibly fragile.  And here he was, the lone mortal disrupting their routine.  Their lack of powers was the only reason he had not yet been crushed between them like an ant between boulders.

"Enough!" roared Io.  The hall shook with his volume.  "Be silent, all of you!  And take your seats."

Still shooting angry glares at each other, the others fell silent and sat down.  Io swung his head towards Davenport.  "I think it advisable that you, also, return to your seat."  To Primus, he said, "We will move on to the next order of business."

"Yes, Mayor Io.  The plan for the next crop rotation…"

Davenport descended the dais.  Garl met him in the aisle, clapping a hand over his shoulder.  "Why don't we, ah, head over to the barn early?" he said in a low voice.  "Help Cyrrollalee set up for the hoedown."

Davenport glanced over at Kurtulmak, whose glare was like a pair of daggers aimed at his heart.  "Yeah, that…yeah, sounds like a good idea," he said under his breath.

They left the town hall in silence.  Nobody remarked on their exit, and nobody tried to stop them.

 

#

 

"Well?  What now?"

"Party grenade," said Garl.  "Toss it about a third of the way through the party, get some more lights and music and a beach ball out on the floor.  It'll defuse the tension."

"No, I mean—about getting everyone out of here.  We need to find a way to escape."

Garl glanced at him, shook his head just a little.  "Listen," he said, "I understand that's the goal here.  But as things are?  Nobody's going to listen to you.  Tensions are too high.  Half the town will want to stir up trouble, and the other half will be afraid to act for fear of stirring up said trouble.  In a couple of days, when things calm down, we can try something else."

"A couple of days?"  Davenport gritted his teeth.  "We don't know how much time Faerun has left!  If we're in some sort of pocket dimension, time might not even be passing at the same rate out there.  Hell, Faerun might be gone by now, and we might not even know!  We may not have time to ease people into the idea."

Garl paused, rubbing his chin.  "All right," he said, sighing.  "I'll, uh, make the rounds at the party, make a few tentative inquiries with some of my friends.  See who's receptive.  That all right?"

Davenport nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

They reached the halflings' barn, which had been cleared out to make room for a large dance.  The doors were wide open, and Cyrrollalee was inside, setting out platters of cookies on one of several snack tables.  Beside her was a cart piled hight with food rolled in from her kitchen.  Bright lights and flower garlands had been strung from the roof beams.

"Need a hand?" asked Garl, striding in with a smile.

"Garl, Davenport!  Lovely to see you both!"  As usual, her smile was warm and made Davenport feel immediately welcome.  "Did the meeting let out so soon?"

"Nah, we skipped out early," said Garl lightly.  "I didn't need to listen to Primus wax rhapsodic on the state of the town budget."

She regarded Garl for just the briefest of moments, then waved them towards the cart.  "There wasn't trouble, was there?" she asked, gesturing them to start on the cheese platters.  "Did Garagos not get his league approved?  I feared he might take that hard."  She pulled a platter of still-warm brownies from the cart.

Garl sighed.  "No, not Garagos."

Now she turned and looked straight at them both.  "Oh dear, Garl…you didn't get in a fight with Kurtulmak again?"

"To be fair, he started it.  And to my infinite credit, I decided to walk away." 

Cyrrollalee frowned.  "You know," she said, setting down the brownies, "things might get better if you just tried to talk to him."

"I don't think this is the sort of thing that can be resolved by talking," said Garl wearily.  "Especially not if he—"

Cyrrollalee screamed.  Garl whipped around, drawing a dagger from inside his jacket.  But there was nobody else in the barn.

Davenport was gone.  And where he stood was a faint cloud of mist, shaped into his silhouette.  

Garl frowned.  "What is this?" he asked, running one hand through the mist.  It stayed in place, held there by a magic he didn't recognize.

"I don't know," said Cyrollalee, throat tight.  "I've never seen—"  She broke off, raising one hand to her mouth.

Garl followed her gaze to the floor.  Right beneath the Davenport-mist was a magical sigil, glowing faintly white.  It was shaped like a seven-pointed star.


	28. Parley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mookie wants to help. Mavis has a confession. Merle makes a call.

It was, all things considered, a pretty nice day.  Merle restored a field of wildflowers next to a drying-up pond, and spent a lovely hour helping Mavis weave a flower crown while Mookie splashed around at the pond's edges, hunting frogs to carry back to him for show-and-tell.  He fixed a withering grape orchard, and the grateful couple that ran the place offered him some excellent wine, which he accepted graciously and shared all around.  Taako talked vintage with the couple, and even Branda—who insisted she was an ale gal—accepted a cup.  His kids, meanwhile, were offered all the fresh grapes they could eat.

So a good day, mostly.  Besides the ocean being gone.

He'd heard some rumors that something had happened to it.  So he figured, he'd go down to the beach, use the Staff of Seasons to pull it back from wherever it's gone.  Best way for him to do the most good from a single place.

Plus, it would be nice to see the beach again.  To let the kids play on the warm sands, to hear the waves again. 

They could see the empty ocean bed long before they reached it.  From a grassy cliffside, in the light of a swollen, late-afternoon sun, they had an excellent view of the muddy mess of it:  bare rocks covered in drying seaweed, the distant wreckage of an old ship poking up from the mud like an exposed skeleton.  The stink of dead and dying fish mixed with the tang of salt on the air.

"Huh," said Taako.  "So much for a nice dinner of fried calamari."

"Yeah, this…this ain't great," said Branda.  "I've never really been precious about smells, but this is pretty awful."

"Well," said Merle, "no point lingerin'.  Let's get down to the beach, try ta fix the ocean."

The sight of the devastated ocean bed weighed on them, squeezing out all the good feelings of the day, like sour wine squeezed from underripe grapes.  Taako, Mavis, and Branda were all quiet on the path down, and even Mookie seemed worn out and glum. 

"Chin up, everyone," he said.  "We got this!"  He waddled the rest of the way down the path and onto the beach proper.  It was littered with driftwood and bits of seaweed.  The sand glimmered in the light of the setting sun.  He could still see the tideline where the ocean had last been.  He walked past that line, marked with bits of shell and stringy, dried-up seaweed.  Hw hefted the staff and brought it down on the sand.

Nothing happened.

He paused, a flicker of uncertainty in his chest.  He brought down the staff a second time, squinting at the horizon.  His vision wasn't all that great anymore, but his hearing was still good and he didn't hear squat.  No rushing water, no distant rumbles of what might be waves.

"Did it work?" asked Mookie.  "Where's the ocean?"

"It didn't work," said Mavis heavily.

"Nah nah," said Merle.  "It just…it might take a while.  The ocean's pretty far away."  He wondered if it was _too_ far away.  The staff did have limited range; maybe standing in the dried-up bed wasn't enough, maybe he had to actually find the ocean, if there was anything left of it.  Or maybe it was just more than the staff could handle, or maybe—

He shook his head.  "It might take a while," he repeated, even though he didn't quite believe it.  He'd felt nothing from the staff, no sense of power flowing through its wood.

In the distance, the stars began to fall out of the sky.

 

#

 

Taako sautéed a pan full of fish, carefully turning them in the transmuted butter, dropping in bits of diced garlic.  They'd been lucky to find a small tide pool where a few live fish were still kicking around, so that became their dinner.  Branda watched him stir, quietly taking sips from her tankard.  Merle made an attempt to get the sullen Mookie interested in the tide pool, while Mavis pored over her beginner spell book, pointedly not making eye contact with anyone.

Merle sighed and stood.  "Hey, Fireball," he said, "c'mere for a minute, will ya?"  And he headed back to the dried-up tideline.

"Ya gonna use the staff again?" asked Mookie when he caught up. 

Merle set a hand on his son's shoulder.  "The staff already did everything it's gonna do," he said honestly.

"Oh," said Mookie, with obvious disappointment. 

"Now listen," he said.  "Doesn't mean the ocean _isn't_ comin' back.  We just don't know if it is or not.  It's…it's over the horizon, son, and we can't see that far ahead."  He pointed the tip of the staff to that faraway point where blue became black, the quickly disappearing line between sky and earth.  A handful of stars wobbled and fell, burning out like fading ashes.  "Life can be like that, sometimes.  Ya try your best, but you don't always know what's gonna happen, what's waitin' just over the horizon.   Ya reach out with your heart, and your words, and your actions, but ya don't know how the world's gonna respond.  Ya get what I'm sayin', son?"

Mookie frowned at the distance, his little face all scrunched up.  "I…I think so, dad," he said, but there was a small, uncertain catch in his voice.  "Does this mean the staff's broken now?"

He shook his head.  "I don't think so, but…we just have to move on, keep trying, keep helping where we can.  We can't ever give up, okay?"

"Yeah!" said Mookie, with more enthusiasm.  "Heroes never give up!  No matter how scary things are!"

"Exactly!"  Merle's heart swelled with pride.  "Ya got it, Mookie.  And it's okay to be scared, but the important thing is to keep going, knowing you are an important part of this universe, and everyone has a part to play in it."

Mookie looked up at the sky, balling his little hands into fists as if he could punch the falling stars back into place.  "What's my part, dad?"

"Well, that's something you'll need to figure out yourself," he said.  "But I have faith you'll get there."

Mookie beamed up at him.  "I'm gonna find the bad guy and punch him in the nose!"

Merle laughed, tousling his son's messy hair.  "I'm sure ya could," he said.  "But remember, there are always other ways to fight the fight.  Now c'mon, smells like dinner's just about ready."

 

#

 

Mavis wasn't sitting by the fire.  She was some distance away, quietly seated on the sand, back against a driftwood log.  Her head was bowed in prayer. 

Merle guided Mookie towards Taako, who was distributing the cooked fish onto plates.  And he went to go talk to his daughter.

She looked up when he sat down beside her.

"Hey Mavis," he said gently.  "How ya holdin' up?"

She shrugged.  "I'm a little scared, to be honest."  She didn't meet his eyes.

"Nothin' wrong with being scared," he said.  "It's a natural thing, when the world is ending."

She stared at the darkening sky.  "You had to face this a hundred times," she said.  "I can't imagine that.  How did you…how did you deal with that?"

He tugged on his beard, casting his memory back to that long century.  He'd missed so much of it, being dead.  But even if he hadn't seen more than half of those apocalypses, the weight of them still hung like a funeral shroud over everything they did.  Even on the best days with his family, there'd been a sharp, stinging shadow behind every word they said, every step they took, every laugh that was just a little too brittle.

But even with all that, he never lost faith.  Not entirely.  And in the end, he'd been right.  His family, brilliant and full of love, had figured it all out.  Even if it had been one hell of a bumpy, roundabout way.

"Well," he said, "I always knew I had my family.  There wasn't nothing we couldn't do, s'long as we were together.  Even if I didn't always understand why they did what they did, even if I…wasn't always around, I trusted them.  I trusted them to do their best, to play their part, just as I played mine."

Mavis was silent.

"You, uh, wanna pray together?" he asked.  "It might help—"

She startled like a spooked rabbit.  "N-no, that's okay, Dad.  I really don't—um—maybe—maybe I'll just pray on my own?"

"Mavis, sweetie," he said, "what's wrong?"

She bit her lip, staring at him like a deer in fantasy headlights. 

He waited, turning his face to the horizon.  "All right then," he said, "you don't have to tell me.  But I want you to know you can, if you want to."

After a moment, she said, very quietly, "Promise you won't get mad?"

He placed his soulwood hand over his heart.  "Swear to Pan."

She let out a breath, as if she'd been holding it in for years.  "I've been worshipping Berronar Truesilver," she said in a rush.

He waited for the rest of it.  But she just stared at him.

"Wait," he said, "that's it?"

She drew her knees to her chest.  "You're not…disappointed?"

"Sweetie, why would I be disappointed?  Berronar's a great goddess!  Protector of homes, and bonds.  Those are good things."  He turned to look at her, suddenly thinking back on all those odd little moments where Mavis had withdrawn, her discomfort in the Pannite temple.  "Is that what you've been worryin' about this whole time?"

"I thought you'd…"  She laughed nervously.  "I thought you'd be, I dunno…upset that I chose mom's god over yours.  Like I was taking sides."  She dug her toe into the sand.  "And you're like, the most famous Pannite cleric in the world, and you—you spent so much of your life evangelizing for him.  You even met him!  I thought…I dunno.  That if you found out I chose someone else, you'd think you failed somehow."

Merle's heart felt all knotted up in his chest.  Mavis had still been young when he'd walked out; he'd hoped that she hadn't noticed the crap that went down when he returned to deal with the fallout.  He hadn't come back willingly.  A pair of Berronar paladins, charged with punishing oathbreakers, had dragged him back to Bottlenose Cove to answer for breaking his marriage vows.  It had been messy and bitter and ugly, and Hekuba--once a paladin of Berronar herself, who viewed promises as unbreakable and sacred--had been furious.  He managed to get enough pull from his own church to negotiate an annulment, if not a divorce.  And then he'd walked out a second time, still technically married, but spiritually free. 

He thought Mavis had been spared the ugliness of it all.  But she was a sharp girl, of course she noticed.  He had no idea what she saw in Berronar--Hekuba's faith always seemed like so many rules and duties to him--but he didn't bear any ill will towards the church.  Even if her paladins coulda gone a little easier on him.

He sighed, and put an arm around Mavis's shoulders.  "Nah," he said.  "Mavis, I don't think that!  If anything, I'm sorry I didn't notice what you were goin' through.  I don't—"  His throat tightened.  "Listen, I grew up in a Pannite commune.  If I learned anything from that, it's that bein' shoved onto one path is no good for anyone involved.  Faith flourishes and grows when you find it for yourself.  When you learn what it means for _you_.  It's a journey that takes a lifetime, and it doesn't end when you pick a god, or when the god picks you.  That's just a waypoint on the road."  He brushed a lock of red hair out of her eyes.  "You've got a good heart, Mavis.  As long as you're true to your heart, you'll be fine.  That's the best guide you'll have on this journey, okay?  Not silly ol' me."

Mavis's face crumpled.  She started, very quietly, to cry.  Merle just held her.

He caught sight of Taako out of his one good eye.  The elf flashed a quick thumbs-up, one eyebrow raised in silent question.  Merle responded with another thumbs-up.  All good.

Soon, Mavis quieted.  Merle pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her tears away.  "You good?"

She nodded.  "Yeah," she said, and smiled.  "Wow, that went…so much better than I feared."

He grinned.  "Life is like that, sometimes.  Now come on, let's get some dinner.  I dunno about you, but I'm starving."

Mavis laughed.  The sound cracked his heart.

 

#

 

Later that night, when the kids were tucked into their bedrolls and finally asleep, Merle stood up and stretched.  He pulled from his pocket an envelope with a letter inside.  He'd been carrying it for days now, unsure if it would even be needed.  But looking at the stars falling, the muddy bed where an ocean used to be, he made his choice.

It was time.

He slipped the letter into his bedroll and walked off down the beach, in the direction of a cluster of boulders where he could have some privacy.  Nobody stopped him.  Taako was tucked into his sleepy sack next to the kids, and Branda had gone off on watch in the opposite direction.

He unbuttoned his shirt as he walked.

A shadow moved on top of the boulders.  He froze.

Branda looked down at him, from where she sat on the tallest boulder.  She took a sip of her tankard.  "Hey Merle," she said, her voice quiet to avoid waking the others.  "Everything all right?"

Damn it.  He thought she'd gone down the other way.  "Yeah, just gonna take a piss," he said.

"No," she said, "you're not."

He raised both eyebrows.  "Sorry?"

She regarded him through narrowed eyes.  "I'm drunk," she said, "not stupid.  Merle, you've spent your entire day living it up with your kids, having fun and dropping life lessons, being the Best Dad Ever.  And then you wait till everyone's asleep, stuff a note in your sleeping bag and walk off alone to take your shirt off?  You don't need to take your shirt off to piss, Merle.  Unless you Tosun dwarves have some really weird physiology."  She took a swig of her ale, wiped her lips with the back of her sleeve.  "You're gonna go try to Parley again.  And this isn't a family meeting, because if it was, you wouldn't be doing it at night when everyone's asleep, and you wouldn't be acting so damn sketchy about it."

A string of curses ran through his head.  But he just sighed.  Pan, he felt so tired.  "Look, Branda," he said, spreading his hands, "the world is ending.  I gotta do something, and the Staff ain't gonna fix this.  A band-aid's better than nothin', but it ain't the cure.  I just wanna give my kids a fair shot."

She raised an eyebrow.  "By walking out on them a second fucking time?"

His jaw dropped.  "What?"

"Oh, I'm sure you've got it all figured out," she said, waving the tankard.  "How this time, it won't be so bad, since you're walking away to martyr yourself for their sake.  But it's the same thing all over again, Merle!  You're walking away and leaving everyone else to pick up your mess—"

She broke off, rubbing her forehead with a sigh.  "Look," she said, more quietly.  "I don't hate you.  You're a good guy.  You want to do what's best for your kids.  But by Hanseath's beard, Merle, it's the end of the world!  If Parley ends badly, they'll be standing at the apocalypse without a dad."

Merle sighed.  "I thought about that," he said.  "But if the worst happens—and we don't know that it will—Taako can take 'em back to Hekuba.  She'll take care of 'em.  They won't be alone."

Branda laughed, slapping her hand over her eyes.  "You don't— _Merle_."  She dropped her hand, and just shook her head slowly.  "You wanna know why I'm here?  You wanna know the real reason I've been following you all over Faerun?  Because Hekuba asked me to.  Because she didn't trust that you wouldn't try something boneheaded that would get your ass killed."  She raised her tankard in his direction.  "Looks like she was right."

Merle's jaw dropped.  "What?  Hekuba hired you?"  His cheeks burned.  The nerve!  He was a seasoned adventurer—especially now that he had all his memories back!  Sure, he and his family pulled off some pretty daring plans, but Merle Highchurch was made of sturdy stuff.  Faerun hadn't killed him yet.

Well, besides Refuge.  But he got better!

Branda gave him an odd look.  "Hired me?  She didn't have to pay me one copper," she said.  "She's one of my best friends.  All she had to do was ask."

Now it was Merle's turn to give Branda an odd look.  "Huh.  She never mentioned you before." 

She rolled her eyes.  "Did you ever ask?" she said.  "We adventured together, during her paladin days."

Merle wracked his brains.  He knew Hekuba had been a paladin, back before they'd gotten together.  That's why the matchmaker had paired them up in the first place.  Figured their shared interest in theology would give them something to talk about.  And it had, at first.  They'd stayed up late many a night, having playfully combative debates about the nature of faith and duty and what it all meant.   

He must have asked about her time as an adventurer.  Hadn't he?  But his memory back then was slippery, even on his best days.  He hadn't known why.  He'd just accepted it was the way he was.  Merle the useless, Merle the forgetful.  Merle who only found peace sitting on the beach, letting his thoughts drift and trying to forget everything that wasn't the present moment.

"Shit," he said.  "Okay.  Alright.  I might not'a been too nosy into her social life.  But things weren't easy on me!  I was going through some shit.  And our marriage—look, why am I telling you this, anyway?  It was an ugly marriage, it didn't work out, I'm trying my best here—what more does Hekuba want from me?  Or is she just gonna keep sending her friends to spy on me?"

Branda sighed.  "Hey, I signed on to make sure you didn't get yourself killed.  Not to be your marriage counselor."  She rubbed her forehead.  "So I'm saying this as a friend, Merle.  Did you ever think about what _she_ was going through?"  She tilted her head towards the sleeping forms of his kids.  "You're trying to square things with your kids, and that's great.  But did ya ever think about squaring things with her?  Because you left her alone, Merle.  You walked out and left her and just assumed she'd stay to clean up the mess, because somebody had to.  She had two kids depending on her.  She worshipped the goddess of home and duty and honoring promises.  What else could she do?  And then you rolled back into town after the Story came out, an interplanar hero now, as if that was all the apology you needed to give?"

He grunted.  "What, if all she wanted was an apology, why didn't she ask?"

"Fuck, Merle, why should she have to?"

He threw up his hands.  "This is just like her!" he whisper-shouted.  "She doesn't tell me what she wants, and then gets mad that I don't do it!  What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Like I said, I'm not a marriage counselor.  But maybe you can start by sitting down and actually talking to her.  Actually trying, for once, to understand where she's coming from.  You did it for the Hunger, you can do it for your ex."

He rolled his eyes.  "Fine.  All right.  If I survive, I'll go and talk to her.  _After_ I Parley."

"Yeah, about that."  Branda leapt down from the boulder and landed right in front of him.  She cracked her knuckles.  "That ain't happening.  You wanna Parley, you're gonna have to go through me."

He nodded.  "All right."  And he cast Gate right below her.

She cried out as the ground disappeared beneath her.  And she plunged into the Astral Sea.  The gate closed above her. 

He scrubbed his face.  He'd get an earful from Kravitz later about this.  But he'd deal with that when—

"Well," said Taako from behind him. "That happened."

"Aw, shit."  Merle turned to face his friend.  "Ya saw that?"

Taako stood leaning against one of the taller boulders, still in his pajamas, hair mussed from sleep.  "Most of it, yeah."

"What about the kids?"  He glanced over at the dying campfire; he could still see lumps inside their bedrolls.

"Still asleep," said Taako.  "Zone of Silence.  So we don't have to whisper."

Well, that was a blessing.  He didn't know what he'd do if his kids caught him like this.  "Are you gonna stop me, too?"

Taako frowned.  "Look, Merle, I—"  His ears flattened.  He looked out at the ocean bed, at the stars falling one by one over the horizon.  "I don't want you to die.  And let's face it, your, uh, survival rate with Parley isn't exactly great, my dude.  But I'm fresh out of ideas.  And we've survived some pretty improbable odds so far on this plane, so…"  He shook his head.  "If you think we got a shot, if you've found a way to do this, then I'm not gonna stop you.  Just, if things start going south, you ripcord out of there."

"Yeah, I can—I'll do that."  Merle glanced over at his kids once more.  And it hit him again that this might be it, this might be the last time he saw them.  Mookie, who was his own flesh and blood; and Mavis, whom he'd loved as a daughter since the moment he laid eyes on her as a toddler clinging to Hekuba's skirts.

"You, uh--if the worst happens," he said, "tell Mavis I'm sorry.  I know she asked me not to go."

Taako nodded.  "Will do, my man."

"And, uh…tell Hekuba I'm sorry.  Fer everything."

Taako rolled his eyes.  "Just try not to beef it, okay, my man?  Because that is a conversation I do not look forward to having."

Merle chuckled despite everything.  They gripped each other's hands.  And then he sat down on the beach beside the boulders, picked up a stick, and drew a seven-pointed star in the sand in front of him.

In order to Parley, he needed some general idea of a target.  And Magnus had, by accident, given him the idea.  The star on Ruin's side was a logo, a branding mark.  A symbol representing Ruin's owner or creator.  If he focused on that symbol as his target, well…he figured he'd either get the head of that church Angus was researching, or whoever made Ruin in the first place. 

He closed his eyes, and focused.

The spell instantly connected.  He felt himself being pulled forward by a string connected at his navel, as the beach disappeared and Parley began to form a new room around him.

He opened his eyes.  He was in the Starblaster.

Only…it wasn't the Starblaster he knew, the one created by his family's memories.  All the pillows and blankets and knick-knacks were gone, leaving behind clean steel paneling and the stripped-bare skeletons of utilitarian furniture.  The only color was the all-purpose red carpeting in the common room.

A figure stood at the helm.  At first, Merle's eyes couldn't resolve what he was looking at:  the figure shifted and flickered, and all he could process was that they were tall and wearing a hooded red robe, and a seven-pointed star shone like a halo of white light behind their head.

He sucked in his breath.  The figure shimmered like a heat haze, and then resolved, their weight settling on the floor with a sigh.  The star's glow faded and its shape shifted, into a halo of seven swords pointing outward from behind their head.

The figure reached up pale, slender hands and pulled back their hood, revealing a beautiful elf man with moon-white hair that fell down his shoulders in soft waves.   His eyes were pure red, like drops of blood against the snowy whiteness of his skin.  He smiled, slowly, like a snake.

"Merle Hitower Highchurch," he said, his voice a soft whisper that seemed to sound in the back of Merle's head.  "At last, you have called me."

Merle's eyebrows shot up.  "You've been…waitin' for me to Parley?" he asked.  This wasn't what he'd expected.

The figure's smile widened, just a little.  "You've done fine work," he said.  "I am…a fan."

"You are?"

A single nod.  "The Gaia Sash.  A marvelously cunning piece of work." 

Merle felt his stomach tighten.  He opened his mouth to speak, but the elf held up a hand to silence him.

"We have much to discuss," said the stranger.  "Fear not, for all your questions will be answered.  But first…"  He snapped his fingers.

Five more figures popped into the room.  Magnus, the twins, and Barry appeared in the ship's stripped-bare common room, looking very confused.  Lucretia stood rigid to one side, her hands hovering before her, fingers still moving as if she'd just been writing.  She blinked and looked down at her now-empty hands, and her face grew ashen.

"What the hell, Merle?" Taako asked.  He glanced over at the strange elf in red robes, and his eyes widened.  "Is that--did you--and you brought us in too?!"   

Merle jumped up from his seat.  "I…I didn't…!" he stuttered.  This was impossible.  He was the one who'd created the Parley space.  This other person couldn't just drag other folks in, that wasn't how the spell _worked._ And yet, here was his family. 

"Fear not," the stranger whispered into his head, and this time he felt a soft pressure on his shoulders, a sense of detached calm.  From the looks on his family's faces, they felt it too.  "I have no desire to harm any of you."  He glanced over the gathered group.  "One is missing," he said, and the whisper was so quiet that Merle could barely hear it.  The stranger closed his blood-red eyes and snapped his fingers again.

The air next to Barry shivered and resolved.  Davenport appeared with a gasp.

"Dav!" Merle shouted.  He still had no idea what was happening, or how, but the sight of the gnome alive and in one piece eased a knot of fear in his chest.  "You're all right!"

Dav blinked, looking around.  "Where am I?  Is this…Parley?"

"What the hell is going on?" Lup demanded, stepping towards the stranger at the helm.  "Are you the one who's behind all this?  Because we've got some fucking _questions._ "

The stranger didn't seem the least perturbed by her fierce glare.  In fact, he smiled at her warmly.  "Of course you do," he said.  "Such a sharp mind, Lup.  Such a bold and demanding heart."

"Don't act as if you know me," she spat.  "Everyone learned that from the Story.  Doesn't make you some master of insight."

He chuckled.  Merle felt that pressure again, a sense of amusement.  Like cold fire tickling the back of his neck. 

"I needed no Story to tell me who you are, Lup," said the stranger.  "You were there when I was born.  You know me well, as I know you."

Lup stared at him.  She glanced at Taako, but her brother looked just as baffled.  He moved close and gripped her arm.  His eyes were wary, but Merle could sense his terror from ten feet away.  Or maybe it was his own terror.

The stranger bowed his head.  "You may call me Whisper."  He sketched a low, elegant bow to all of them, the seven swords of his halo gleaming.  "I am the last god of Faerun.  The god of global war."


	29. Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lup sees the world in a new light. Kravitz goes fishing. Taako refuses to accept this shit.

Lup stared at Whisper, with his halo of seven swords, standing in a stripped-bare fake Starblaster.  "Excuse me?" she said, her voice sharp and breaking.

"I am the god of global war," he repeated.  His voice was quiet, unruffled, inevitable.  "And you, the Seven Birds of Faerun, called me into existence.  My first worshippers."

Lup felt her blood run cold.  Without meaning to, she took a step back.

"The hell we were!"  Taako's voice snapped her out of her shock.  "I think I'd know if I were worshipping someone, and fuck if it was you."

Whisper raised one chalk-white eyebrow.  "Didn't you, though?  Did you, Taako, not think your war an acceptable price to pay, so that your family might know peace?  Did you not look down from the deck of this ship, at all the devastation wrought by the weapon you created, and declare it all so much _dust?"_

Lup felt more than saw the sorrow that struck Taako's whole body, like a blow.  She tugged his sleeve, pulling him behind her.  Whisper's gaze didn't linger on Taako; he looked at all of them, one by one, his gaze a silent dare to deny him.

He spread his hands wide, in an open, almost beseeching gesture.  "All of you called for me," he said.  "All of you prayed to me.  When the war broke out, you all prayed in your hearts that this would be enough, that war would keep the Hunger away.  And I did."  His gaze settled on Lup now.  It felt like a cold weight on her shoulders.  "You may have had regrets.  But you cannot deny that I answered your prayers."

"Bull.  _Shit,"_ growled Magnus.  "We wanted the Hunger to be stopped.  None of us wanted the war."

"And did you raise a hand to stop it?"

Magnus faltered, turning pale.  Lup knew from the haunted look in his eyes that he wasn't seeing a pale elf with cruel headgear.  He was looking at himself.

"No, Magnus," said Whisper.  "You did not ask me to stop."

"But we did," he mumbled.  "We did stop you!  Lucy did her--well, you know…"  His fists clenched.  "And we got all the relics back, and saved the world and stopped the Hunger, with the power of friendship!"

Whisper smiled.  "You stopped the Hunger with another war," he said.  "With your bonds, you summoned your loved ones to a great and glorious battle."  He drifted across the upper deck of the helm, as if it were a dais, his steps making no sound on the bare flooring.  "I admit, Lucretia's erasures were a setback," he said, his bloody gaze landing on her.  "But you could not erase the _idea_ of global war.  There were those who still believed, who kept my vision of a world constantly striving.  A world where the machine of war was a tool for bringing forth what you wanted, what you _needed._   And Lucretia's stories of the Red Robes, spread through the ranks of a world-spanning Bureau, only gave me greater shape."

"No," she whispered.  "That wasn't--"

"Wasn't it?"  He drew close to her, regarding her with soft eyes.  "My wayward child, you may have rejected me, yet still you gave me a form."  He extended one arm to the side, showing off the drape of his robe.  "And when your Story filled this world, ah!  What a glorious day!"  His long, pale fingers closed in an elegant fist.  "Your tale inspired the entire world to rise up and fight.  It was one single great prayer to me:  let us all go to war and beat back the Hunger, once and for all.  Let this world-spanning battle keep our homes and families safe."  He looked at all of them now.  "Once again, I answered your prayers."

Lup rolled her eyes, squishing her fear down to the pit of her belly.  "So you're asking for credit, now?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't break.  "Is that what this is all about?"

He chuckled.  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. 

"It is nice to be acknowledged," said Whisper.  "The prayers of my followers do sustain me.  But I have a greater purpose in mind for you, my first worshippers, my Seven Swords.  You who began the Relic Wars, you who sacrificed countless lives to me:  be my emissaries.  Continue my work, as no others on Faerun have yet been able to do."

Immediately the room erupted into angry refusals, as Lup and every single one of her family shot down the offer.  "What?  No!  Of course not!  What the fuck?  Why would we want that?  How could you even think we'd do that!"

Whisper's only reaction was a quiet nod.

"I think we've made ourselves pretty clear," said Davenport, glaring at Whisper, arms crossed firmly over his chest.  "We have no interest in perpetuating war on this world."

"I see," said Whisper.  "However, when a god asks you to be an emissary, it is a…courtesy.  A god doesn't need your permission to make you an emissary, if he or she so wishes."  He glanced down at the captain.  "You can attest to that, Davenport.  Garl never asked your permission, did he?"

Davenport stepped back, visibly paling.  His eyes narrowed.  "How d-did you--" he began.  "You--you c-couldn't _possibly_ \--"  He broke off.

"I was there," said Whisper.  "I was there in that darkest part of your heart, Davenport."  He waved a hand, and half the room changed.  As if Whisper had drawn an overlay across it, it became closer to the home that Lup had known for a hundred years:  worn cushions, dinged-up furniture, full of all the signs of warmth and life. 

Seated at a little card table in the corner was a second Davenport.  Across from him sat another gnome, dressed in fine silks of gold and green; a magnificent coppery mustache moved as he spoke.  She could only assume it was Garl Glittergold.  The spectral Davenport frowned, his gaze ice-cold.

She couldn't hear what they were saying.  The image was misty, like she was looking at a memory, or a dream.  But Whisper gestured to the two of them as if their silent conversation were some damning evidence.  "Garl asked you to pull the relics back.  He asked you to stop the wars.  And you refused.  I was there with you then, Davenport.  When you chose me over him."

Davenport's mouth moved in silence.  His hands clenched into shaking fists.  "That's not--I d-didn't--"

"You did.  Over and over again, you chose me." 

"Don't listen to him, Cap!" said Lup, stepping forward.  "It was another time!  You're a different person now.  We're all different people!  Better than this, and better than whatever bullshit you're peddling," she added, pointing an accusatory finger at Whisper.

But Whisper ignored her, his attention focused only on Davenport.  "You're short a god currently, aren't you?" he asked, stepping closer to the gnome, his posture casual but no less threatening.  He drew a long serrated dagger from a sheath at his hip, and flipped it so the handle was extending towards Davenport.  A silent offer it to him.

Davenport stumbled backwards, trying to put as much space between him and Whisper as possible, one hand covering his heart as if to protect it.  His tail lashed in unconcealed fury.  "You wouldn't _dare,_ " he growled.

Lup stepped closer.  Her hands were on fire, even though she knew it would do nothing to Whisper.  Magnus, Taako and Barry were also stepping forward, ready to do anything to come between this god and their captain.  Merle and Lucretia seemed too stunned to act.

Whisper paused, regarding him coolly.  "Yes," he said, "you're probably right." 

And he flung the dagger at Barry.

Lup didn't think.  She only acted, lunging in front of Barry and catching the knife before it could strike him.

The moment her fingers closed over the hilt, a power she couldn't name shot through her body like lightning.  She screamed.

Whisper grinned.  "I was hoping you would take the bait," he said, his voice--his _presence_ \--fully in her head.  "No one in this room is more worthy of being my emissary of war."

She was screaming.  Everyone was screaming, shouting, the room was full of so much _noise_.  She felt Barry and Taako grab her and pull her back, away from Whisper, but there was nothing they could do, there was no distance she could travel where she could get away from him, where he wouldn't be _right there_ with her.  Everywhere, circles of black glass following her.  Everywhere, fire sweeping over the countryside and burning everything down.  She could see it all in her head, from the deck of the Starblaster sailing over everything.  The patterns of glass, the shape of fire spreading over the world in a design of masterfully controlled chaos. 

"Is it not incredible?" he whispered in her head.  "Each battle is a gear in a marvelous machine, built by your hand.  Is it not beautiful?"

She tried to tell him no.  She tried to spit in his face.  But she couldn't refute what he said.  It _was_ beautiful.  Sick and twisted and awful, but beautiful all the same.

She felt Whisper's smile.  "You cannot lie to your god, Lup," he said. 

She gasped.  She was back in Barry's arms.  He was calling her name, over and over again.  She wanted to touch his face, to tell him she was okay, but she wasn't okay.  She closed her eyes, and all she could see was black glass.

Whisper took the serrated dagger from her fingers, and she let him.  He was looking around the room at the rest of her family, as if sizing up the rest of them.  "No no no no no…" she mumbled, head spinning with visions.  "No, don't you _dare,_ you don't _touch them--_ somebody fucking stop him--!"

Her gaze landed on Merle.  He was staring at her, eyes wide, hands reaching out to heal her, even though they both knew that there was nothing he could do to fix this.  He looked at Whisper, then back at Lup, and mouthed something she couldn't hear over the shouting of her family and the roar in her head.

And then the Starblaster disappeared.

 

#

 

Kravitz recognized the dwarf woman he fished out of the Astral Sea.  "Branda?" he said.  "Are you all right?  What happened?"

She spat water out of her mouth and climbed up onto his shoulders.  "Just get me back to dry land," she said.  "Fuckin' Merle Highchurch," she added in a low grumble.

"Was there trouble?" he asked, flying back towards the fortress.  "Should I be concerned?"  He was definitely concerned that the sea was beginning to churn and froth again, but if Merle and Taako were in danger, that took precedence.  He'd promised Taako that he'd stay here, but if Taako were in danger--

"Nothing we can't settle once I get back to the beach," she said.  "Let's just say I tried to keep him from doin' something stupid, and we had a disagreement.  He's probably--"

She broke off as Kravitz landed beside the misty outlines of Barry and Lup.  She scrambled off his shoulders and crossed the room to them.  "Wait, what happened here?"

Kravitz shrugged.  "I assumed that Merle called a family meeting."

Branda frowned.  "No, that's not right…"  She looked up at Kravitz.  "It's late at night where we are.  He wasn't going to call his family.  He'd found a way to Parley our enemy, whoever they are.  He was trying to sneak off so nobody could stop him!"

Kravitz raised both eyebrows.  "Then why are Barry and Lup--"

"You need to get me back to the beach," said Branda in a rush.  "My gut's telling me that something's not right.  I--"

Barry and Lup shuddered back into the room.  Lup collapsed to her knees, gasping.  Barry reached for her; there were tears in his eyes.  "Lup, Lup!" he called. 

Kravitz felt his whole body tighten in fear.  "What happened?" he asked.  "Lup, are you injured?"

She took several deep breaths before looking up at him.  "Whisper," she said.  "He's--fuck--he's _pulling_ on me."  She forced herself to her feet, but she was obviously shaken.  Barry supported her, his fingers gripping her tightly by the elbow.  She held out her other hand and snapped her fingers to summon her scythe.

A sword appeared in her hands instead.  She stared at it in shock for a split second, before her mouth contorted in fury.  "That _fucking bastard…_ " she growled.

Barry turned even more pale than normal.  "We…we should do something.  Maybe if we get you to the throne room, maybe some divine artifact of the queen--"

All at once, the fury drained from Lup's face.  "Barry…" she said, and that one word carried so much sorrow.  "She can't help me anymore."

Kravitz finally noticed the tingling in the back of his head, the warning that someone not of the Queen's retinue had entered her domain.  It was Lup.  "By the Queen…" he said.  "What _happened?"_

"Bird Mom's got nothing to do with this."  Lup shook her head.  "Anyway, time to go see if I can punch my new god in the face."  And then she vanished, not in a cloud of raven feathers but a burst of fire and smoke.

Barry sank to his knees, staring at the place where she'd been.

"Taako…"  Kravitz said, his voice breaking on his lover's name.

Barry nodded once, numbly.  "He's fine," he said.  "All the rest of us…Whisper only took Lup."  His face crumpled.  "Gods, Lup…"

Branda muttered an oath in Dwarvish.  "Kravitz, you need to get me back to Merle," she said.  _"Now."_  

Kravitz nodded.  Mechanically, he summoned his scythe and cut a hole in the air for Branda.  He felt like he'd just been cut loose from the world, numb and uncertain.  He needed to focus on his immediate next steps.  Barry would need his help, and Lup--

He saw Merle standing on a beach that had no end.  The ocean was gone, revealing a bare sea bed.  The dwarf looked as stunned as Barry.

And then he heard Taako's voice.  Kravitz's heart leapt at the sound, but the brief feeling of relief was quickly overshadowed by concern as his lover grabbed Merle by the shoulders and started to shake him.

"Merle!" Taako was shouting.  "What the fuck?!"

"Aw, shit," said Branda, leaping through the portal.

Staring at the quickly escalating commotion, Kravitz made an executive decision, and leapt through the portal after her.

 

#

 

Listen, there was nothing—nothing—in this world or any other that could hone Taako's attention to a fine steel point like some bastard laying a hand on his sister.  And it didn't fucking matter that Whisper didn't physically touch her.  He grabbed her all the same, fucking grabbed her by the _soul,_ and Taako wasn't having that.  Even as Barry had tried to wrap his arms around her, forming a soft, pudgy human shield, Taako was readying a spell at Whisper.  It probably wouldn't work in Parley but maybe he could distract this fucker, get his attention off Lup for a moment.  He raised his hand, screaming—

\--and then he was back on the beach, stumbling forward in the sand.  "What the hell?!" he snapped, looking around, trying to get his bearings.  "Merle, what the—send me back!  We gotta help Lup!"

But the old man was staring in shock at nothing. 

"Merle!"  Taako grabbed him, shook him.  "What the fuck?!"

"Taako!"  Kravitz was stepping through a portal, Branda and Barry at his side.  He, too, looked ashen.  "Taako, I'm so sorry…"

"You're not the one who needs to be sorry," said Taako.  "Whisper's the one who's gonna be sorry.  And maybe I coulda done somethin' about it, except this old man decided to kick us all out of Parley!" 

Merle finally seemed to notice him.  His face was pale beneath his perpetual deep tan.  "Well—what the—the hell was I _supposed_ to do?!  He looked like he was ready to take someone else, too!  He—" 

"Fuck!"  Taako let loose a magic missile, shattering one of the boulders.  Merle flinched.  "He fuckin' got Lup!  He could just fuckin' wave his hands and make her his emissary?  What the fuck?  How is that even allowed?"

Something broke inside him, and he began to sob.  Kravitz's arms were around him, holding him together when he felt like he was falling apart, falling to nothing.  Lup needed his help and he couldn't help her.

"All right," said Barry.  "All right."  He kept saying it as if he was about to start laying down the next steps in some plan of action, but it went nowhere.  The poor guy was as lost as Taako was.  He sat down hard on a rock.  "All right," he echoed.  "We—we just gotta—all right."

"Krav," Taako murmured against his shoulder.  "She was already a Reaper.  He couldn't just—how could he just take Lup?"

Kravitz shook his head.  "I…I don't know," he said.  "I don't…I've heard of gods spontaneously claiming emissaries, but not like—it's usually—Taako, I'm sorry.  Perhaps in the queen's absence, this…other being was able to lay claim."

"Whisper," said Barry.  "He called himself Whisper.  The god of global war."  He was silent for a breath, before adding, "He says we created him.  When we started the Relic Wars.  The idea of global war wasn't a thing on this world, until we brought it."

"Fuck him," Taako growled.  "I never signed on for this.  And neither did Lup."

"The Relic Wars were our—"

"Don't even start, Barold," said Taako, looking straight at his brother-in-law.  "Don't even go there.  It doesn't matter who started those fucking wars.  Lup tried to stop them.  That's what fucking matters."

"And we're going to do whatever it takes to get her back," said Kravitz.  "Listen, we have a name now.  We know who it is behind all this.  The birth of a new god is a dramatic event.  It leaves its imprint on the celestial realms—information, records.  There must be something I can turn up that can be useful.  Besides, even if Lup is now Whisper's emissary…she still has free will.  She's still _Lup._   She can still resist his influence over her."

Barry's mouth twitched in an almost-smile.  "Yeah, she, uh…apparently was heading off to try to punch him in the face.  So there's that."

Something like bitter joy fluttered in Taako's heart.  Yeah, she _would_ try to punch a god in the face.  Classic Lup.

Merle climbed slowly to his feet.  He'd always seemed like an old man to Taako, but now he looked like he'd been Wonderland-aged another twenty years.  He looked down at the seven-pointed star he'd carved in the sand, and wiped it away with a swift kick.  "Damn it," he growled.  "For what it's worth, Taako, I'm sorry.  I didn't…I didn't realize what was waitin' on the other end of Parley."

Taako took a deep breath.  "Not your fault, old man.  It was the only shot we had left.  Blew up in our faces, but what else is new?"

Merle glanced down the beach.  Mavis and Mookie had been woken from their sleep and Branda was trying to herd them away, trying to reassure them.  They weren't buying it.  Everyone was tense as overtuned fiddle strings ready to snap, and those kids were sharp.  Mookie had his hands balled into fists and Mavis looked ready to cry.

"Okay," said Taako, taking a deep breath to steady himself.  "First thing's first, we gotta find Lup and see if there's a way we can help her.  Merle, that's on you."

The old man nodded. 

"Then we gotta find out everything we can about this Whisper dude, and find a way to bring him the fuck down.  Krav, you've been around the block on this.  How do we kill a god?"

He shook his head.  "You can't," he said.

"Like fuck I can't."

"No, Taako, I mean…"  He ran one hand down his face.  "If what Whisper told you is correct, he's…he's an embodiment of a concept.  You can't kill a concept.  The only way to truly kill a god is for them to stop being worshipped."

Barry scratched his stubbly chin.  "He did say that even when Lucretia erased the memory of the Relic Wars, he still stuck around.  Even that couldn't erase the idea of global war."

"Not just the idea of global war," said Kravitz.  "Someone was actively worshipping him."

Barry stuck his hands in the pocket of his black Reaper robe.  He frowned, and pulled out what appeared to be some kind of military medal.  His brow furrowed.  "Say, for example…someone who, uh, fought in the Relic Wars, and even when he forgot about them, was still so obsessed with the idea that he started a cult?  And got a job in Goldcliff as an arms dealer?"  He held up the medal.  "Just a hypothesis, but what if our friend Arrold Valcrest was the worshipper that got Whisper through that decade?  Like…like a carrier for a virus."

"Listen," said Taako, "if killing every cultist in that weird little cult is what I need to do, I will do it.  I give zero shits."

"That may be more complicated a task than simply blasting a bunch of cultists," said Kravitz.  "But there is one other, greater problem we need to take into account."  He gestured to the stars falling over the horizon.  "If Whisper is a god of Faerun, he's the only one we have left.  He may be the reason the world hasn't fully collapsed yet.  And if he goes…there's nothing left holding the world together."


	30. Jobs to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davenport is #blessed. Magnus takes charge. Angus solves a divine puzzle.

Davenport popped back into the kitchen, so suddenly disoriented that he stumbled backwards and landed on his tail.  The startled shouts of his crew still rang in his ears.  And Lup, no--Lup--gods damn it--!  He looked around, half-expecting to still see Whisper looking down at him.  But Whisper was gone, along with his crew.  He was back inside the gods' prison.  Garl was holding a dagger, as if expecting some kind of threat; Cyrrollalee peered out from behind him, eyes wide. 

Garl sighed in relief and sheathed his weapon.  "Davenport, my boy, are you all right?  What just happened?"  He extended a hand to help him up.

Davenport stared at his god--the god he'd spent so long rejecting and ignoring, just when he'd needed to listen the most.  Garl had opened a door in his heart, and he'd slammed it back in Garl's face.  "I'm sorry," he squeaked. 

"Sorry?  Whatever for?"

_Whisper was my fault,_ he wanted to say.  _My crew created him.  We created this whole mess, and I'm responsible for that.  And now Lup's been taken and the world is ending, and it's our fault, it's_ my _fault, and you tried to warn me but I turned you away._   But he was afraid that if he started to say any of that, he'd break down sobbing and never stop. 

So he corralled his emotions and put them away for another time.  His iron-clad hold over his feelings wasn't as water-tight as it used to be; a stray tear or two might be leaking down his cheeks.  He quickly brushed them away and got to his feet.  "I need to find a way to get a message out of here," he said. 

Cyrrollalee shook her head.  "I'm sorry, dear.  You know we have no Stones of Farspeech here," she said.  "And even if we did, no messages can get past the mountains."

"Well, we're going to have to find a way," said Davenport.  "The sooner, the better.  Bad things are happening out there, and I need to contact my crew."  He pointed out the window, towards the false sky whose stars hadn't moved since he arrived.  "We need to find a way to break through that barrier."

"Barrier?"  Her brows pinched in puzzlement.

"It's…hard to explain," said Garl, tugging on his mustache.  "Not sure if I've wrapped the ol' bean around it myself.  But there's a…a force keeping us in here, keeping us from leaving this valley even if we wanted to.  Unfortunately, I'm not sure if anything we've got in town is strong enough to break through it."

"There has to be something we can do," said Davenport.  "We've got a whole town of experts and specialists in literally every skill under the sun!  We just need a…a magical battering ram, or a barrier-piercing sword, or--"

Garl chuckled, shaking his head.  "All that time you spent under my employ, did I teach you nothing?  You never go barrelling straight at the wall!  That's just what the wall-builder expects.  Look here…"  And he drew his dagger again, waving it in the air like a wand.  An illusory ovoid appeared in the air, like a translucent egg.  Inside was a tiny, bright mote of light.  The light batted against the inside of the shell like a trapped fly.  "The wall is the strongest defensive area, by definition."

Davenport stared at the shape.  "But if we're inside some sort of…pocket dimension, say…then the wall would surround us on every side.  There's no direction we could go where we wouldn't hit the barrier eventually."

"Well, then--you'll just have to find a way to not go to the edge.  Break through from the center, instead."  The little mote pulled out a very tiny dagger with a very tiny arm, and punctured a hole in the air, at the center of the ovoid.

Davenport rubbed his forehead.  "Puncture the barrier…from the center?"  He stared at the ovoid.  Stones of Farspeech and Message spells didn't work like that; their messages radiated out through space, like radio waves.  Unless...

Unless he wasn't sending the message through space.  The bond engine could jump the planar barrier from any point in the Prime, provided the ship had enough forward momentum.  Without the Light of Creation, he couldn't build another bond engine.  But if he had another way to jump between planes--

"Wait."  Cyrrollalee narrowed her eyes.  "Garl, did you have that dagger on you at the town hall?"

"Eh…?  Ah, that is…"  He flicked his fingers, and the dagger folded up into a small golden fob.  "Technically it's a keychain."

She planted her fists firmly on her hips.  "You know very well that weapons are forbidden at town hall!"

"Ah, my dear, you know I'm never unarmed!  What if someone challenged me to a dagger-throwing contest?"

She thwapped him upside the head.  "Having weapons in town hall undermines the spirit of friendship that binds our town!  And I won't have it at my party.  Now give it here, I'll put it in a safe place and you can take it with you when you leave--"

"You want me to lock up Joey?  He'll get lonely!"

She sighed and took the fob from him.  "My sincerest apologies to 'Joey.'  And you're more than welcome to have a party for all your cutlery when you get home."

Davenport snapped his fingers.  "A crystal mirror!"

"Eh?"

"Like the Millers had!  If I could get a flat, circular mirror made of the proper crystal, it would resonate with the Prime Material Plane, allowing for two-way communication!"  He tapped his temple with one knuckle, trying to think back to his visits with Lucretia to the Miller Lab.  His memories of that time were hazy, more like disconnected moments and images surfacing out of a general fog.  He remembered finding the Millers' heirloom emerald compass one day, when going to fetch something from Maureen's desk; he remembered being confused and fascinated by the images of future tech streaming in from the Plane of Thought, until Daniel the butler came in and took it from him and hurried him back to the lab.

They'd only had the emerald at the time.  Maureen and Lucas weren't able to successfully discover others and build the cosmoscope until after they found the Philosopher's stone.  And the details after that were disjointed, based on whatever Taako, Magnus, and Merle had found noteworthy during their mission.  Sapphire for the astral plane, black opal for the Hunger.  "But what resonates with the Prime?" he muttered.

"Aquamarine," said Garl.  Both his eyebrows lifted, as if he was surprised that he knew that.

Davenport regarded him.  "Aquamarine.  Are you sure?"

He shrugged.  "Gems are my specialty," he said breezily.  "It's definitely aquamarine."

"All right.  But I'll need an aquamarine mirror, perfectly flat and perfectly circular.  And it can't be cut into shape; it needs to be naturally formed that way, or transmuted."

"Hm.  Well, transmutation isn't exactly my area of expertise, but gemstones are.  Hmm, yes, I think we can manage that!"  He bounced on the balls of his feet.  "Ooh, this is exciting!  I'll start right away!"

"And I'll set up a space down in my lab," he said.  "We can set it up there."

Cyrrollalee looked back and forth between them.  "But the hoedown…" she said, the disappointment in her voice clear.

Davenport hesitated.  "Uh…I'm really sorry, but this is an emergency.  I…I need to help my family."

"Oh!"  Her expression softened.  She took Davenport's hands in hers, which were soft and still covered in a layer of flour.  "Well, you must help your family, then!  That's very important."  She gave him a quick kiss on each cheek.  "Go, then, with my blessing."

_My blessing._   Davenport stared at her, at their clasped hands.  He'd hardly spent any time with her, prodding her memories.  But was she beginning to remember what she was, same as Garl? 

He filed that away for later study.  "Thank you," he said.

She grinned, handed him a brownie, and sent him on his way.

 

#

 

Magnus burst into Lucretia's office.  "Lucretia, we've got a problem!" 

A strange shimmer of light surrounded Lucretia; both her hands were raised, each holding a brilliant white quill.  She was surrounded by words:  letters formed by filaments of light hovered in the air on every side of her, pouring from the tips of her quills, swirling past and disappearing.

He stopped, his jaw dropping open.  "What…Lucy?"

She lowered her hands.  The words and the shimmering light vanished.  She leaned against her desk, her whole frame sagging with exhaustion.  "A problem," she said bleakly.  "The understatement of the year."

He rushed to her side, guided her to a chair.  "Look.  I know this is bad…Like, really bad--but we have to do something now."

"We created a god," she said.  Her eyes were bright with tears that couldn't quite spill.  "I thought we had saved this world.  I truly did.  I thought if we worked hard, we could undo the damage we'd done, and bring it to a better place than it was."  She shook her head.  "I'm starting to think we're incapable of saving anything.  Sooner or later, every world we touch is destroyed by our foolishness."

He frowned.  "I don't accept that," he said.  "We stopped the Hunger.  We stopped the Relics.  We can stop Whisper, too!"  He punched his fist into his palm.  "We just need to stick together, and figure out a plan!"

"How do you stop a god, Magnus?  It took us a…a _century_ to find a way to stop the Hunger.  We don't have that kind of time."  As if to emphasize her point, a handful of stars visible through the window behind her wobbled and started falling out of the sky.

"I don't know, Luce," he admitted.  He was a fighter, not an ideas guy.  But things always seemed to work out when he trusted his family.  They were some of the smartest people in the multiverse.  "Maybe he has a weakness?  We can figure out what that is, and like…blast him with it?"

She chuckled, shaking her head.  "I don't think it works like that," she said.

"It's worth a shot," he said.  "What's the opposite of war?"

"Uh, peace?"  She raised one eyebrow skeptically.

A wave of déjà vu rolled over Magnus.  He remembered saying that exact same thing to the little halfling matriarch, Glissando.  He could picture her face now, wry and knowing.  _And what is peace?_

He opened his mouth, shut it again. 

_What is peace?_

A knock sounded on the door.  "Come in," he said automatically.

Killian stuck her head in.  "Uh, we have a problem," she said, in a weird echo of his own entrance.  She held a glowing Stone of Farspeech in her hands.  "We've got some bad news from our landside agents."

Magnus glanced at Lucretia.  But then he remembered he was in charge now.  He drew himself up, ready to take on whatever was next, so Lucretia could focus on her own strange work.  "What've we got?"

"Well, Goldcliff is on fire, so that's a thing," said Killian.  "There was a major attack against the city, bombs going off everywhere.  And the mayor blames Neverwinter, so now he's declared war.  So that's a problem.  And, because apparently nothing can go right, Sterling has declared war in return.  So yeah, everything's really shitty right now and two of the biggest powers in the world have decided the best thing they can do with their time, _while the world is falling apart,_ is to try to kill each other."

"Well," said Magnus.  "Shit."

Lucretia said nothing.  She seemed like a statue beside him.

Killian frowned at the Stone in her hands.  She looked sorely tempted to crush it.

"Okay," he said.  "Okay.  Tell Avi to ready a sphere.  I'm heading down to Neverwinter."  He wasn't great at politics, but he was a beloved world savior.  And he'd dealt with Sterling before.  He just needed to knock some sense into the man.  How hard could it be?

 

#

 

"All right," said Angus, running a finger down the page.  "I think we need a line connecting this rune here," and he pointed to a rune inscribed into the stone, "with this other anchor rune over here."  He took a few steps to the side and pointed out the second image to Mastersmith Buiron. 

Buiron took a piece of chalk and numbered the two runes carved into the worn stonework.  Angus waved his wand between them, drawing a filament of magical energy from one to the other.

The ancient forge of Gond was apparently activated when a properly-designed magic circle was created over the ancient stone circle.  Unfortunately, the instructions for doing so were written into his Book in a series of obtuse references that needed to be decoded.  "Draw fire from the rune of the lawmaker to the shattered sword" meant linking the rune used as a seal by the ancient justices who oversaw Rockport law, to a rune that kind of looked like a sword being broken over an anvil if you squinted just right.  And he'd spent hours staring at the icons carved into an inner ring of stone, before he realized they represented the legend of Gond and he was supposed to start at the image of a volcano.

"Hmm."  Buiron stood up and regarded their work so far.  A handful of runes, set along the outer ring at regular intervals, still remained unaccounted for.  "Any more clues?"

Angus read through the rest of the page.  "It just says, 'After the rune of dragon's breath--that's that last one there--'the gear begins to turn.'  Are there any runes that signify gears?  Or look like gears?"

Buiron walked slowly around the circle, brow furrowed.  "Not gears," he said.  "But teeth.  Look." 

Angus looked at the unlinked runes.  They were all the same rune: a three-sided square, with the open side facing in towards the center of the circle.  "Gear teeth," he said.  He stepped back to try to get a better view of the whole thing.  "And each one is across from a matching one!  I think--what if we're supposed to connect them all in pairs, like spokes on a wheel?"

Buiron beamed.  "I think you may be onto something, my friend!  Give it a try, see what happens."

Angus focused magical energy at the tip of his wand, and one by one began to link each gear tooth to its corresponding tooth on the opposite side.  There were eight spokes in all.  When he finished the last one and broke off the filament of energy, the stone began to rumble.  He backed away as it shifted beneath his feet.

The circle of stone split into separate rings, spinning slowly against each other with a deep grinding noise.  The innermost ring rose up like a pedestal emerging from the ground.  More glowing filaments of magic etched delicate patterns over the worn stone: lines and circles intersecting and parting in a rhythmic dance, like the inner workings of some alien mechanism.  It rose up to about Angus's height, and a small metal hatch opened on one side, revealing the pedestal's hollow interior. 

A segment of the middle ring--a broad, flat quarter-circle--also rose up.  When it reached about waist height, the whole mechanism stopped, thunking into place. 

From the darkness inside the tall pedestal, a silvery-white flame burst into life.  The heat of it washed over him like a blanket.

"Is that…is that the forge?" he asked.

"Aye," said Buiron, his eyes shining.  "Built by Gond himself.  Unfathomably ancient, elegant in its simplicity.  And there's still enough of Gond's divine power in it to light the fire within.  A fire which needs no fuel and no bellows, but burns unquenchably at the perfect temperature."

"Then what's that?"  He pointed to the quarter-circle, which sat nearby, unmarked and inert.

Buiron smiled.  "That, my friend, is our anvil.  Now," and he cracked his knuckles.  "You have done your job admirably, Mr. McDonald.  Now it's time for me to get to work."


	31. Emissary of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davenport steals some cable. Lup makes a terrible choice. Angus discovers the fruits of his labor.

Garl held up the smooth, mirror-like aquamarine, set into a circular frame of filigreed silver.  "Quite a lovely piece of work, if I do say so myself!" he said.  "Will it do?"

Davenport squinted at the gem's surface.  "It's blank," he said. 

"Not entirely.  View it at an angle, like so."

He tilted it slightly.  Out of the corner of his eye, beneath the pale blue-green shine of the gem, he could barely make out a flutter of moving light and shadow.  As if it was trying to show something but there was interference, or a faulty connection.  Not ideal, but promising.  It was a starting point.

He handed it back to Garl and set up some equipment that could run a current through the gem.  "Honestly, I was half-expecting this," he said as he worked.  "I'm going to try to give it a power boost."

Garl shrugged and wandered around the converted basement lab, occasionally holding up the gem to the light and squinting at it.  "You know," he said, after a few moments had passed in silence, "there's an old tale that says that we gnomes began like this.  Souls inside of magical gems, and when they first felt sunlight, they popped out and became the first gnomes.  There are dozens of stories of how we came to be, but I always liked that one especially."

Davenport paused in his work.  His home warren had had its own "origin of the gnomes" story, but gnomish lore could vary so much between warrens, let alone on the various planar systems he'd visited.  "Is it…do you think it's true?" he asked carefully. 

But Garl just chuckled.  "Does it matter?"

Davenport opened his mouth, closed it again.  He sighed and activated some runes on a crude steel amplifier ring.  He held out his hand for the aquamarine, which Garl handed back.  He set it inside the ring, then connected ring and frame with a handful of wires. 

"Still…" Garl mused.  "You know how transmutation works, Davenport, don't you?"  He straddled a chair, resting his arms on the back.

"It, uh, wasn't exactly my specialty."

"It's basically tricking one thing into believing it's something else.  Bread into cheese, a worn cloak into a fur coat.  It's easier if the two things are similar, if they have some sympathy of like to like.  It's easier to turn lead into gold than it is to turn lead into a glass of milk.  You follow?"

"Uh-huh, sure.  Makes sense." 

Garl leaned forward, eyes twinkling.  "You know what it's easiest to turn a gnome into?"

Davenport thought about it.  "Uh, a dwarf?  A halfling?"

Garl snorted.  "A precious gemstone."

"…Huh." 

"Perhaps we were all once gemstones," Garl continued, "and our souls still remember that.  Now, isn't that a lovely idea?"

Davenport stared at him, then at the aquamarine lens.  "You, uh, didn't--is this, uh, someone we know?"

Garl laughed.  "Goodness, no!  I just transmuted some glass.  And now that you've indulged me and my ramblings, go ahead and boot up that amplifier ring, because I can tell you're eager to get this started."

The basement door swung open.  "Garl?" came Flandal's voice.  "You down here?"

"In the flesh!"

Flandal came halfway down the stairs.  "You're missing the hoedown," he said.  "Seems unlike you.  Is everything all right?"  He glanced at Davenport.  His brows furrowed at the sight of the amplifier array. 

Garl cleared his throat.  "Everything's quite fine.  I'm just helping Davenport here with some, uh, high-priority experiments.  It couldn't wait."

Flandal frowned.  "What on earth are you doing?"

"Apparently, trying to steal cable," said Garl with a grin and a wink.

Davenport stared at the gemstone.  With the amplifier ring's boost, the picture in the gem was more noticeable, but it was still fuzzy.  Dappled light and shadow moved under the gem's surface.  He had no idea what he was looking at.  "Still not getting completely through," he said, slowly turning up the power on the ring.  No luck.

Flandal was looking over his shoulder at the simple array.  "Stealing cable?  What does that even mean?  And stealing it from _who?"_

Garl's smile slipped.  "I have…no idea?  It just seemed like something I'd say…"

"Whisper," said Davenport.

"Sorry, my boy, am I being too distracting?"

Davenport swiveled on his stool.  "No, no--I mean, we're stealing it from Whisper!  This place--this pocket dimension, whether it's inside Ruin, or Ruin's mouth was just a portal to it--it's a construct made by Whisper.  It has to be!"  He began rummaging through the drawers of his worktable.  "He's the one preventing us from contacting the outside!  But if it's running on his power, then…what if I…"  He found what he was looking for: a small piece of white chalk.  Picking up the amplifier ring and its attached gemstone, he drew a circle on the surface of the desk, right where they were going to sit.  He marked out seven points around the circle's circumference.  And, slowly and carefully, he drew a seven-pointed star inside that circle.

"It's almost connecting," he explained.  "But there's still a little residual interference from his power.  If I disguise the transmission as coming from Whisper, I may be able to get through."

Garl's smile was long-gone.  He stared at the seven-pointed star, eyes wide and cheeks noticeably pale.  "Davenport," he said, very quietly, "that's not…"  He rubbed his jaw. 

He hesitated, halfway through the final leg.  Was Garl remembering more?  "Do you recognize this symbol?" he asked.  "Does it mean anything to you?"

Garl shook his head, eyes never leaving the symbol, as if it were a venomous snake about to strike.  "No, I…it feels _familiar_ to me.  I'm not sure why, or where I've seen it before.  But it's a bad thing, Davenport.  Very bad."

"If it's bad," said Flandal, "then neither of you should be messing with it."

Davenport sighed.  The panicked shouts of his crew still rang in his ears.  "You're not wrong," he said.  "But right now, it's the only lead I've got."  He completed the final leg of the star, set the gem on top of it, and flipped on the amplifier ring.

 

#

 

Lup had never been to Whisper's domain in the celestial realms.  But her sword took her there anyway, because something inside her (fuck that fucking asshole) knew exactly where he was.

She found herself in a large stone hall.  The floor and ceiling were polished dark marble, and one wall was only a series of fluted columns, giving her a wide view of a smoke-riddled landscape far below.  Whisper stood between a pair of the columns, hands clasped behind his back, watching whatever was going on down there.  He didn't acknowledge her arrival.  But he knew she was there.

Lup didn't think she could kill a god.  She was hella powerful, and would fight anyone who said otherwise, but a god was next-level shit.  Still, she wanted to open the discussion by letting him know where she fucking stood.

She cast Scorching Ray at his back.

The magic fizzled an inch from his form. 

He didn't look at her, or speak.  He just raised a hand and beckoned her forward.  A silent invitation to look.

She took three reluctant steps forward, and peered outward.

The landscape below her was a battlefield, and a machine at the same time.  Clockwork armies marched in different formations, clashed and retreated, merged and split apart.  Factories rose, churning smoke into the air.  Towns disappeared in flashes of fire, only to be rebuilt from the ashes, then to throw open their newly-built gates and disgorge more warriors.  From this distance, they were abstract shapes shifting hypnotically across the world, moving to a complex but controlled rhythm.

"As I said."  Whisper smiled.  "Beautiful."

Lup frowned.  She felt nauseous and cold and _furious._   "Is this what you fucking want?" she asked through gritted teeth.  "Is this your big plan?  Endless global war?  Because it's bullshit."

"It is inevitable," he said.  "Peace is the aberration."

"If it's such an aberration, why did you have to get rid of all the other gods to make this happen?  Uh, not to mention that the only reason the Relic Wars even happened was because the Relics were a _fucking accident_ that got people to fight over them because of thrall!  And we are fucking past that shit!" 

Whisper tilted his head, regarding her.  "No," he said.  "I don't think you are.  Setting this up has been trivial.  As for the other gods, well…"  He smiled.  "That was their own doing."

"Bullshit.  Your gods-damned logo is slapped right on Ruin!  That thing came from you, I don't care what sort of roundabout logic you're using to excuse your responsibility."

He shrugged.  "At the end of the day, Lup, I am a merchant.  I offer a very specific product, and I continue to remain in business because that product is desired."  He flicked both hands out, unfurling two scrolls whose writing smoldered like fire.  "Further, I cannot be held responsible for when said products are…misused."

Her eyes jumped to the bottom of both scrolls, which were crowded with signatures in a bewildering array of ink colors and unfamiliar scripts.  One of them she recognized:  the signature of the Raven Queen, written in a swirl of impossibly black ink.

Whisper flicked his hands again, and the contracts rolled up and disappeared before she could get a better look at their contents.  "Still," he said, "the other gods are gone, which presents an opportunity.  You know that the world is ending, Lup.  But I can save it.  If the world turns to me in worship, I will become powerful enough to sustain it on my own.  The world will be reborn in my image.  This slow apocalypse will stop, and life will go on."  He extended his arm to show the endless battlefield below:  a perpetual motion machine of blood and fire and noise.  "This is what you will help me achieve."

She scowled.  "Fuck you," she said.  "You might be in my head now, but there is no fucking way I'd ever want to help you."

He nodded.  "I know.  You will always hate me, Lup.  But perhaps another member of your family would be more suited to this work?"  There was that slow, snakelike grin again.  "Perhaps Taako would enjoy working for me.  Or Barry?"

Lup lunged for him without thinking, without caring whether or not her blow would hit.  He turned his face to her, and she froze in place, her flaming fist inches from his nose.  She couldn't move.  She was held in place by the force of her god's will.

And that was when she saw the walls of the trap she was in.  The trap he had caught her in without her even knowing.  If she refused to be his emissary, he would take someone else from her family in her place. 

Everyone she loved was a hostage.

She withdrew her fist and dropped to her knees, the wind knocked out of her. 

"You are not my only emissary, Lup," he said.  "I do not need you.  It is you who needs me.  I am the only one who can keep this world alive."

She forced air into her lungs.  She wanted to scream. 

"For the sake of your family," he said, "for the sake of this world you call a home, Lup…will you help me?"

For the sake of her family.  For Barry, and Taako, and everyone she loved. 

She bowed her head.  "Yes," she said.

She couldn't lie to her god.

 

#

 

Angus woke to the acrid smell of burning metal and smoke.  He sat up, instantly on alert for forest fires.  But then he remembered the forge, and heard the steady clang of Master Buiron's hammer, and relaxed.  The fires were under control, the swordsmith was hard at work, and for the first time in several days, Angus felt like he could relax a little.

The clearing was brighter than he remembered, and less green.  He looked up.  There were substantial holes in the rainforest canopy that hadn't been there yesterday.  A thin layer of recently-fallen leaves littered the area.  As he watched, a breeze loosed another patch of leaves, sending them fluttering downward.

Huh.  He picked up a fallen leaf, turned it over in his hands.  It was brittle and browning.  Was Rockport reverting to its original state, with the rainforest finally retreating?  Or were the trees dying because of some other apocalypse-related factor?  How long had it been happening?  He'd been so engrossed in his quest to find the swordsmith and stop the God-Sword, he hadn't noticed much else.  But now that Master Buiron was taking care of that, Angus found himself mulling over other things he'd set aside.

It had been days since he'd checked in with the Bureau.  He realized he had no idea what the state of the rest of the world was like.

He frowned.  This was unlike him.  Sure, when he was hot on a trail of clues, having a strong focus helped a lot.  But it wasn't good detectiving if he became oblivious to everything else around him.  So many mysteries were a confluence of factors and influences from many different sources, so a broad situational awareness was critical.

He hoped the others weren't worried about him.  He'd check in with Master Buiron, and then call the Director and Taako so they'd know he was okay.

He stood up, stretched, and pulled an apple from his backpack.  A healthy breakfast was key to a productive day.  He took a few bites as he walked over to the ancient forge.

Master Buiron was examining a blade in the early morning sunlight, turning it over in his hands.  His hair was wild, his skin shone with sweat, and he had bags under his eyes, suggesting to Angus that he'd stayed awake working all night. 

Angus looked at the sword.  He wasn't an expert in smithing, but it looked like a good, one-handed longsword.  Surprisingly simple in its design.

"Good morning, sir," he said.  "I take it that's our weapon?"

Buiron smiled at the sword.  "It will do the job it has been made for," he said.  "There is nothing in this world that it cannot sever."

A shudder passed over Angus's spine.  "That, uh, sounds pretty intense," he admitted.

Buiron looked straight at him now.  "But that is what you wanted," he said.  "That is why you were sent to find me.  Does it not suit our master's will?"

Before Angus could answer this bewildering question, he noticed the pile of swords on the other side of the forge.  A few dozen swords lay gleaming, each an exact duplicate of the one Master Buiron held.

His jaw dropped.  "How…Sir, how many of these did you make?!"           

"Enough to sever all the final bonds of this world," said Master Buiron, eyes glittering with a wild light, "so that He who Dances Above the Battlefield can rebuild this world anew."

Angus took a step back.  He heard a rustling behind him, and spun around.  Standing at the edge of the clearing, their clothes ragged and their eyes wild, were five other figures:  the missing City Council of Rockport.  Their hair was matted with leaves and their faces smudged with dirt, so much that they seemed to blend into the dying forest around them. 

Buiron held aloft the sword.  "Behold," he said, "the God-Cleaver!  And behold," he extended his other hand towards Angus, "the emissary sent by our master to light the divine forge!  Once sanctified by Gond, it has been born anew by the will of the Benevolent Whisper, the Fire of Heaven!"

The council members shouted in approval, emerging from the woods to claim their swords and reach for Angus, as if he were an idol to be touched for good luck.  "The emissary!" they cried.  "The emissary has delivered our master's blessing!"

Angus staggered back, dropping the apple and waving his arms to get them away from him.  "What?  No!  I'm not anyone's emissary!" he shouted back at them.  "I came because—because—" 

But the moment he said those words, he felt it.  Felt the pressure on the back of his shoulders, the whisper in the back of his skull.  The presence who had been with him, a nearly silent figure hiding perfectly in his shadow.

"I'm not—" he repeated.  "I'm not…"

The figure smiled.  He didn't see it, but he _felt_ it, down at the bottom of his heart.

"I am," he said bleakly.  He staggered back into a tree, dug his nails into the bark to keep himself upright.  "How…how…?"

"Since the moment you wielded my sword," said the whisper.  "Since the moment you asked for my help, you have been mine."

No.  No, this was all wrong!  He felt a hand grasp his arm; he shoved its owner away, then turned and fled into the forest.  But the whisper remained in the back of his head, following where he went, spreading behind Angus like a wake.


	32. Connected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taako puts on his face for a special occasion. Angus slams a door. Davenport attracts some unwanted attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a panic attack in this chapter.

Taako was back in the Starblaster.  The _real_ fake-Starblaster, not the _fake_ fake-Starblaster that Whisper had conjured up, all stripped down to harsh angles and cold metal.  He was sitting in the kitchen he'd spent so much of his life in.  Merle and Barry sat next to him.  And there was Lup, looking surprised.

She smiled, and took his hand.  "Hey," she said, as if they'd been parted for years instead of, like, ten minutes.  But a lot of shit had happened in those ten minutes.

Barry set a hand gently on her arm.  "You, uh…well, it probably doesn't make sense to ask if you're okay, but…how you holdin' up?"

"Well," she said, with that deceptive lightness that Taako knew concealed a storm inside her, "I've been better.  All my rad Reaper things got a makeover, and while I dig the aesthetic, the management is pretty awful."  She tapped one fingernail on the surface of the table, a seemingly nervous gesture.

It was also a gesture that meant, in their secret twin language, _I can't talk freely._  

Taako was instantly on the alert.  He didn't change posture, or give any other outward sign of tension, other than a flick of his right ear.  _I hear you._   He blinked his left eye.  _Are we being watched?_   "Too bad," he said.  "I was kinda gettin' used to the whole goth look."

"It is what it is," she said.  "We're just going to have to deal with it."  She tapped her front teeth, as if thinking.  _Not sure._

Well.  Better safe than sorry. 

People always asked if he and Lup had some sort of secret Twin language.  Well, yes and no.  The language they developed was later in childhood, a way to communicate when their life was unstable and often unsafe.  It was mostly made up of little gestures, or the timbre of a particular word, made to convey warnings and make plans without anyone even being aware of it.  A couple dozen cycles into the century, he and Lup had agreed to share it with their family.  Not all of them used it:  Merle and Magnus were notably terrible at being subtle, and the humans couldn't twitch their ears at all.  But all of them could read it.

The fact that Lup was using it now meant that there was a chance Whisper didn't know it.  That he could see some of what she did, or even some of what she was thinking, but there was a part of her that he didn't have access to.  The thought eased a knot in his chest.

"Well hey, who would I be if I didn't support my sister?"  He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long arms over his head, cracking his knuckles.  _I'm ready to wreck some shit._   He raised his left eyebrow.  _You in?_

_Oh, hell yeah!_   This was an unambiguous, toothy grin.  "Thanks, Taako.  I always know I can count on you."  She adds a quick scratch at her temple.  _Caution._

So Lup was in.  Whisper didn't have her soul.  But she was also treading dangerous ground.  He understood.  "So what's the new job entail, exactly?  You gotta, like, T-pose above a battlefield to inspire people to shank each other?"

"Well, good news is, Whisper doesn't actually want to destroy the world, so there's that."

Barry had been watching Lup with that desperate intensity that would have been creepy on anyone else.  Now he let out a breath that he'd apparently been holding.  "Well.  I guess that's a good thing?"

"I don't think he'd mind my telling you this, since I'm sure he's all about getting the word out on his glorious plans," said Lup.  "But he says he can save the world.  All we have to do is get everyone to worship him--or at least, dedicate themselves to endless global warfare--and _voila!_   He'll be a big enough god to run the whole thing himself."  She pursed her lips in an exaggerated pucker.  _What an asshole._

Taako snerked.  The "what an asshole" gesture was still a classic, even if it had led to some hilarious miscommunications when duck-faced selfies became all the rage on Tosun.

"Oh, is that all?" he asked.  "We just need to, uh, start another war?"

"That's about the size of it.  Or let the world fall apart."  _What an asshole._   "I gotta admire his 'Go big or go home' attitude."

Barry took a deep breath, and took her hand in his own.  "Lup," he said, his fingers running over the back of her hand.  "Will you marry me?  Like, right now."  He glanced over at Merle.  "Merle can marry us.  I've got the rings and everything."  He flicked a wand and opened one of his little pocket dimensions. 

Taako was surprised that spell even worked in Parley, but he was even more surprised at Barry's timing.  Barry and Lup were technically already married, on about…six, seven other planes.  It had been their plan to have one huge, final blow-out wedding on whatever world they ended up on, combining all the best traditions from all their previous weddings.  But when the Hunger was finally destroyed, and they had a peaceful world to build a life in, there was just so much else to do.  Rebuilding, getting on-boarded as Reapers, prepping for Carey and Killian's wedding, even _more_ Reaper work.  Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And Barry wanted to do this now?  A rush-job wedding in Parley, in the kitchen of a fake Starblaster? 

Barry pulled out a very small box, and opened it slowly, like the interior contents were fragile glass or a bomb.  There, nestled on red velvet, was a pair of gold rings, each set with a small gem: one ruby, one sapphire.  He glanced up at Lup, his gaze steady.

She looked at the rings, and at him.  And even though her ears didn't flick and her eyes didn't blink, Taako felt a whole silent conversation pass between the two of them.  Like Barry was planning something, and she understood his plan completely.

"Yeah," she said.  "Yeah, let's do it."

Well.  At least two of the dumb chucklefucks in this room had an idea. 

Merle, meanwhile, was just looking back and forth between them like he was watching a tennis match.  "Ya mean right now?" he asked, like it wasn't incredibly obvious.

"Looks like.  Guess that makes me the witness."  Taako leaned back in his chair, flicking his fingers to magically put on his good face.  He then cast Arcane Disguise on Lup, giving her a quick makeup job.  He'd been looking forward to doing it by hand on her wedding day, but this would have to do.

Barry and Lup stood, and clasped each other's hands.  Taako stood by with the rings.  Merle scrambled out of his chair and went to straighten his shirt, only to realize he wasn't wearing one.  He cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved," he said, "we are gathered here in the sight of…"  He paused, and made a face.  "We are gathered here in the love of each other.  And even though we know that the gods who love us are far away, we have faith that we will see them again, at the end of our long night."  He seemed to have found his footing, and was moving forward with that steady faith that Taako always secretly admired about Merle, though if anyone ever told Merle that, he would definitely deny it.  "In the meantime, we stand together in these dark times to join two candles together, two lights who will become one greater light."

Despite everything, Lup was grinning and ducking her head like a schoolgirl.  Just like she had at every single one of her previous weddings.  It never got old.

"Barry Jerry Bluejeans," he said, and to Merle's credit, he kept his face completely serious during the entire length of that trainwreck of a name, "do you take Lup Taaco to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," said Barry, choking on the word.  He too was beaming, but there was sorrow in the back of his gaze.

"Do you, Lup Taaco, take Barry Jerry Bluejeans to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

Merle nodded.  "Taako, will you bring forward the rings?"

He held out the box.  Lup picked up the ruby ring and slipped it over Barry's ring finger.  Barry, nervous as always, fumbled a bit but managed to get the sapphire ring on Lup's hand.

"Then, in the name of Pan, and by the authority granted to me by the Dwarven Pan-Religious Council, I joyfully pronounce you husband and wife."

Lup already had her arms around Barry, smooching him and holding him like he was a life raft.  Taako couldn't blame her.  Everything was so uncertain, the world was fucking ending ( _again)_ , and some jackass of a god had put his filthy hands all over her soul.  If Kravitz were here, damn straight he'd be doing the same.

Finally they stepped back to catch their breath.  They looked at each other for a long moment, just holding each other's hands, as they used to do on the Starblaster right before going off on potentially deadly missions. 

"I wish I could stay here forever," Barry said.

"Yeah," she said.  "Of course, that might get awkward after a day.  We don't exactly have a bathroom in Parley."

Taako checked the fridge.  "At least we got plenty of food."

Lup's shoulders sagged.  "I have to go back," she said. 

The words were like a punch in Taako's gut.  Judging by Barry's expression, he felt it, too.

He gave her another deep hug.  "We'll stay in touch," he said.  "I love you."

"I love you too, babe."

She hugged Merle, gave him a quick thanks for the wedding.

Taako hugged her last.  "Stay safe, okay?"

"And you stay smart," she said.  "Because I'll be keeping you on your toes."

He had a terrible feeling he knew what she meant.  But he didn't want to think about it right now.  He just wanted to feel the warm press of her body against his, to feel her realness, her presence, her _Lupness._   He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, bracing himself for the unknown future.

He didn't see Lup nodding to Merle.  He didn't see the kitchen dissolve into flakes of colored light, didn't feel his feet settle into the sand of the endless beach where Merle had cast Parley.  He just knew that Lup was gone.

Barry sighed behind him.

"Well?" asked Merle.

He looked at the ruby ring on his hand.  "We, uh, had them blessed by the Raven Queen.  For when we finally had the wedding."  He ran a thumb over the bright red jewel.  "As long as she wears hers, and I wear mine…I'll always be able to find her."

 

#

 

Angus had no idea where he was.  He lay in the broken ruins of someone's house, deep in the rainforest that had swallowed Rockport.  There'd still been some food in the cabinets, some stale bread and jerky to supplement the paltry supplies he'd brought with him.  A few cooking pans set throughout the room collected water from the intermittent rainfalls that poured through the punctured roof. 

It would be pretty easy to turn back into a dragon and fly back to Goldcliff, or up to the moonbase, and get help. 

But what was the point?  He'd just bring his god with him, and spread disaster wherever he went.

It all made so much sense, when he put the pieces together.  The church worshipped a god of war, but not warriors.  Brother Wick's speech had been all about holding the levers of the war machine; his congregation had been wealthy elites, merchants and nobility who controlled the halls of power.  The people who didn't fight in wars, but controlled them, _started_ them, used them to gain power and wealth and to manipulate the world in their favor.

Theirs was a god of war profiteers and arms dealers.  And what form was more fitting for him than to be the whisper in the back of people's heads?  The slightest nudge convincing them that their actions were justified and perfectly reasonable?

All this time, he'd thought he'd been following his own intuition.  But it had been the god of war nudging him along, convincing him that the only way to fix everything was to build a better weapon.

What could Angus do now?  What _should_ he do now, when he couldn't even distinguish his own intuitions from his god's manipulation?

He reached wearily for another heel of bread, wondering if he dared risk contacting Lucretia now.

A flash of light burst from one of the pans of water.  He scrambled back at the sound of shouting.

"Hello?  Hello?  Can anyone hear me?"  The sound was slightly distorted from the pan's metal sides, but it was also familiar.

Angus scrambled forward and peered over its rim.  "Captain Davenport?!"

The gnome looked up at him from the pan.  The water acted as a sort of mirror or window, and Angus could see him clearly, with his scruffy salt-and-paprika beard and braids. 

"Angus?  Is that you?"  He squinted up from the water.  "Where are you?"

Angus felt tears prick his eyes.  As miserable as he was, it was good to see a friendly face.  "I think the better question is, where are _you_ , sir?"

"Jury's still out on that, kid," he said.  "Short answer is, I'm in some sort of pocket dimension accessed through or inside of Ruin.  I set up a communication array to try to get a message out.  I was hoping to reach—"  He winced.  "Lup, or Barry.  Have you heard from either of them lately?  Say, in the past few hours?"

"No," said Angus.  And then it all came crashing down on him again.  He hadn't talked to _any_ of his family for several days.  The last friend he talked to had been Hurley, and he'd left without checking in with her.  He'd been so hot on the trail of his false clues, his "hunches," that he'd never reached out to anyone who could have helped him. 

He bowed his head, and began to cry.

"Angus?"  Davenport's voice still echoed up from the pan.  "Angus, are you hurt?  Did something—Angus, what's going on?"

"I—I can't—" he sobbed.  "I messed up, I—I don't know what to do, he's following me and I made a mistake, and—and—"  He began to hiccup.

"Angus."  Davenport's voice shifted tone.  "Report."

Somehow, those two words—spoken with firm authority without being cold—snapped him back into focus.  He didn't need to think about the larger picture right now, he just needed to calmly explain the facts of the matter.  He sat upright and took a deep breath.

"Sir," he said, "I discovered the missing Rockport City Council.  They've somehow become members of the Church of the Cleansing Fire, and they've been researching ways to make more powerful weapons.  I was tricked into helping them activate an ancient divine forge of Gond, the god of blacksmithing, and now Mastersmith Buiron has forged several dozen super-powerful swords that make the Flaming Raging Poisoning Sword of Doom look like a toothpick.  They say their god is going to use the weapons to sever the remaining bonds of this world, though I don't know how they're going to do that or what it would look like, although we can—we can surmise it'll be pretty bad."  He hesitated, swallowing around the lump in his throat.  "And I helped them because…because I'm an emissary of their god now, of _my_ god, and I—I didn't even realize it, I've been working for him and didn't even know, and…sir, I'm _so sorry."_   He was crying again.  He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.  "I don't know what to do, sir.  I'm…I'm scared."

Davenport said nothing for a long time.  Slowly, he closed his eyes and sighed.  It was the weariest sound Angus had ever heard from him. 

"Listen," he said, very gently.  "A god can't…make you do anything you don't want to do.  If you did help activate this forge, it was because you wanted to help.  Whisper preyed on that, but he can't make you a bad person, Angus.  And now that you know he's manipulating you, you can—Angus, you need to shut him out."

"But sir, I—he's in my head, manipulating me!  I don't know any mental shielding spells, and I don't even know if they would work against a god."

Davenport frowned.  He glanced at something just out of sight, and back to Angus.  "Close your eyes," he said.

Angus closed his eyes.

"Listen carefully, Angus," Davenport went on.  "There's a door in your heart.  Picture it in your mind's eye.  Imagine it's the door through which Whisper speaks to you."

Angus pictured a door, carved of thick wood stained a deep red color.  The moment he did so, it felt real to him, more than a figment.  Like the door was already there, and he'd just never _noticed_ it before. 

He peered inside. 

Whisper looked back at him.  He smiled, and made a slight beckoning gesture with his hand.  Angus felt a pull in the center of his chest.  Whisper was trying to nudge him to walk through the door.  Angus stopped himself from walking forward, one hand gripping the frame and the other on the door.

"Sir?" he said, addressing Davenport.

Davenport's voice hardened.  "Now slam the door shut, Angus.  Slam it as hard as you can, and lock it."

Whisper's blood-red eyes widened just a little.  His smile faded. 

Angus tried to shove the door shut.  A hot wind blew from the other side, but he dug in his heels and pushed with all his strength. 

"That's it, Angus!" came Davenport's voice, echoing from far away.  "You can do it—shit…"

The water in the pan had begun to boil and steam.  Angus realized with horror that Whisper was not only aware of him at the door, but he was aware of Davenport's communication, too.

"Angus?  Ang—are y—there?"  Davenport's voice crackled with interference.

Whisper roared, and the sound was like an entire mountainside avalanching through Angus's skull.  He slammed the door shut with a final heave.  He pictured the door covered in seven locks, one for each of the birds, and locked them all.

The water in the pot burst in a gout of steam.  Angus scrambled away just in time to keep from getting scalded.  The pot hit the floor with a bang and rattle.  It was empty of water, and the bottom was blackened with a scorch mark.

 

#

 

Davenport coughed smoke out of his lungs.  His head hurt, and his ears still rang from the explosion that had blasted apart his workstation.  He'd been thrown across the room.

"Garl?" Flandal called.  "Davenport?!  What on Faerun was that?"

Garl appeared out of the drifting smoke, waving it away in front of him.  "I guess someone doesn't like having his cable stolen," he said, and then coughed.

"I still don't know what that means!" said Flandal. 

"I don't either," said Garl cheerfully.  "Davenport, are you all right?"

Davenport sat up slowly, feeling his face and chest for injuries.  Despite the explosion going off right in front of him, he wasn't burned or bleeding.  He realized he'd landed on his bed, in a miraculous stroke of luck.  "Y-yeah," he said.  "I'm…surprisingly fine?"  He might have a few bruises come morning, but that was it. 

"Oh good!" said Garl, tugging on the ends of his singed mustache.  

He thought back to the moment of the explosion, the feeling of Whisper suddenly _seeing_ him, seeing them both.  Smoke rising from the amplifier ring, as the image in the gem crackled and faded.  And then--

A ball of fire rolling out from the shattering gemstone.  A wall of light rising in front of him, the fire slamming against it--a _shield,_ someone had thrown up a shield--before the wave of heat and percussive force knocked him back.

"Did you, uh, cast that shield?" he asked Garl.  "I, uh, think I owe you one."  He staggered forward, noticing the scorch pattern on the floor where the explosion had smacked against the shield.  It had forked around him in a perfect diamond corner.

Garl raised an eyebrow.  "That wasn't me.  Flandal?"

"Wasn't me, either."  Flandal had cracked open a window and was trying to wave out the smoke, using a handful of loose paper as a makeshift fan. 

Davenport's fingertips brushed against his unburned cheek. 

Cyrrollalee.  What if her blessing had worked?  What did that mean?

"I should, uh, probably…"  He turned to head towards the stairs.  And then, as the adrenaline faded, everything hit him all at once.  Whisper's presence crawling across his skin, and Angus--gods, _Angus too_ \--and Lup was still out there, and his one chance to reach his family was gone…

He sank to one knee, suddenly nauseous and exhausted and shaking.  He heard both Garl and Flandal's voices, asking him questions he couldn't answer.  And then Garl's hand was on his arm, gently helping him to his feet, leading him up the stairs.

"You should get some rest," said Garl. 

He nodded, throat tight.  He was in the living room, sitting down on the couch.  He was vaguely aware that Garl sat nearby, humming quietly.  He lay down, trying to focus on his breathing.  Garl pulled a blanket over him, and resumed his post.

The night passed slowly.  Awareness crawled back to him:  he heard the other gnomes wandering in from the party, tiptoeing past him to their bedrooms.  He heard Garl's soft snoring.  He rolled over, trying to fall asleep.  But sleep wouldn't come.   Every nerve in his body was wide awake, every muscle fiber tense with anxiety.  His stomach churned. He felt like he was going to throw up.  He wanted to scrub at his crawling skin for days until it was clean.  But he was starting to think it would never come clean. 

He knew this feeling. 

He sat up in the dark, running his fingers through his hair.  _He knew this feeling._   This was just how he'd felt, every day of the Relic Wars.  Nauseous, tense as a coiled spring, dirty down to his soul. 

He rubbed at his arms.  If this was what touching Whisper's power felt like...

Through the house's front window, he caught a distant flare of red light.  He narrowed his eyes, staring.

The red light drew close to the town, bathing the midnight sky with a soft, blood-red glow.  The light swept back and forth over the houses.  Like it was looking for something.

That awful feeling in his stomach grew stronger.  Every hair on the back of his neck stood up.  He knew, down in his bones, that it was Whisper.

His mind skipped frantically through what he knew.  Ruin belonged to Whisper; the whole trap ran on Whisper's power; Whisper could probably come and go, pull people in and out, as he pleased; he had either not known or not cared that Davenport was inside, trying to get out; but now he did know, and he knew that Davenport had managed to get a message out.

Whisper was looking for him.

Davenport shrank back into the couch.  He reached in the dark for a spare wand that had been left on the end table.  He had no idea if he could hide himself from a god, especially one so weirdly connected to him, but he had to try.  He flicked the wand to summon an illusion to cover himself. 

The tip of the wand sparked and fizzled out. 

Shit.  He'd lost all his illusion spells when he'd been cut off from Garl!  Damn it.

The red light drifted close to the front window.  It looked like a single red eye, like a drop of blood. 

A layer of darkness rolled over him, like a second blanket pulled over the couch, concealing him from view.  His teeth buzzed with the sheer power of the illusion magic.

"Garl?" he tried to say.  But a Zone of Silence muted the word. 

Two lights glimmered in the dark living room: a pair of jewel-like eyes, softly glimmering, turned towards the front window in silent vigil. 

He couldn't see Garl.  But his presence was unmistakable, undiluted, filling the whole house.  For the first time in all the long decades he'd been an emissary, Davenport realized how old Garl was, how powerful, how much he had been hiding behind a mortal shape for Davenport's sake.

The red light passed over the house, and moved on.  For a long time, neither of them moved.  Garl kept his watch at the window.  Davenport tried to keep breathing.

After what felt like an age, the Zone of Silence dropped.

"Garl?" he said again.  "Do you…remember?"

The jewel-eyes turned to look at him.  Then they winked out. 

And just like that, it was over.  The concealing illusion was gone, morning light streamed through the window, and Garl sat curled up in the armchair nearby, gently snoring.


	33. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garl gets a glance at the game board. Merle lets Mavis go. Magnus tries to stop a war.

"Garl?"  Davenport stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking up from his bond analyzer doohicky.  "Do you remember last night?  Not the explosion, but…after.  In the living room."  He had that look in his face, like he was trying to puzzle something out.

Garl shrugged.  He was elbow-deep in sudsy dishwater.  "Only that I should stop sleeping in that armchair," he said.  "I had some very strange dreams!  And woke up with a crick in my neck, to boot."

Davenport, as usual, was frowning.  He looked back down at the analyzer, brow furrowing.  Garl still had no real idea what it did.  But it kept his friend happy, and everyone's gotta have a hobby, right?

"How're my bonds looking?" he asked.

"…Pretty high, actually," said Davenport.  "Are you _sure_ you don't remember anything?  What the--the dreams were about, maybe?"

Garl thought about it while he scrubbed at a breakfast plate.  He couldn't remember anything specific, only a vague impression of darkness.  "Not really?"

Davenport sighed.  "I'm going outside to take some more readings," he declared.

"Have fun!" said Garl.  He really did mean it.  He really did hope Davenport was having fun.

He heard the front door close.  Not long after, Gaerdal came in with a dish still dripping with raw meat juice, and the bones left over from Urdlen's breakfast.

"Either that cage is getting smaller," he growled, setting the bowl down next to the sink, "or that damned mole is growing."

"Oh?"  Garl glanced out the kitchen door into the living room.  Now that he thought about it, Urdlen _did_ seem much bigger than yesterday.  The creature took up a good half its cage.  "Well, keep an eye on it," he said.  "Reinforce the cage if you have to."

"I mislike the look in its eyes," said Gaerdal.  But he left to find some thicker-gauge steel wire.

Garl washed the bowl and a handful of silverware, whistling as he worked.  Soon Flandal joined him in the kitchen, sitting down pointedly at the table. 

"We need to talk," he said.

Garl sighed.  He'd seen this coming.  "All right."  He set another clean dish into the drying rack. 

"I'm going to cut straight to the chase.  I'm concerned about Davenport."

"What's wrong with him?  He seems happy."  He smiled ruefully.  "Well, as happy as he can be, given the circumstances."

"Obsessed is more like it," said Flandal.  "He barely leaves the basement except to run some experiment with you or ask for more supplies.  Segojan has to keep an eye on him to make sure he's eating and sleeping, and let me tell you, he's not getting enough of either.  And none of us have any idea what he's actually doing!  Even I'm baffled, and you know I'm the best engineer in the village!"  He threw his hands up.  "I was willing to let it slide.  Who in town _hasn't_ gotten hung up in their own portfolio, now and again?  But after last night…Garl, he's messing with bad forces.  Our basement is a smoking ruin.  Any of us could've been killed!"

Garl sighed, and held up a just-washed knife, still dripping with soapy water. He hadn't named this one yet.   _Arumdina_ , he thought.  That's a pretty name.  It tugged on a feeling in his chest that he couldn't name.

"About that…" he said, wiping down the knife and setting it aside.  "Flandal, do you ever think about what you did before the war?"

Flandal shrugged.  "Of course.  We all have, now and again.  But it doesn't do much to dwell on it."

Garl frowned, drying his hands and turning to face his friend.  "Humor me," he said.  "Tell me, who were you before the war?  What did you do?"

"I was a smith," said Flandal, easily.  "And if I do say so myself, one of the best in the world.  That's why you hired me."

"Yes.  And then you died."

"And then I—"  Now it was Flandal's turn to frown.  "Oh dear.  Tell me you're not starting to subscribe to that ridiculous theory Nebelun came up with?  That we all died in the war and this is some sort of afterlife?"

Garl shook his head.  "No, Flandal, you didn't die in the war.  At least, I wouldn't call it dying.  But you died long before then.  You were a smith, an excellent one!  A true master.  And then you died, and then I hired you and put you in charge of my own smithy, where you worked for a long time.  And then the war happened, and now we're here."  He extended his hands, as if he'd set something down on the kitchen table for Flandal to examine.  "That's how the timeline works.  And the others are the same.  Gaerdal was a brilliant soldier and defender of my people, and then he died, and then I hired him and put him in charge of my defenses.  Baervan had a knack, a true gift for speaking to animals and finding his way through the woods.  And then he died, and I set him to overseeing the wilds of my domain, and all who passed through there."

Flandal's eyes grew wider as Garl continued.  "What are you saying, my friend?  This doesn't—"

"But I never died, Flandal," he said.  "Because I was the first."

Flandal shook his head.  "I feel like you're giving me a riddle, my friend."

"I suppose."  Garl leaned back against the counter, stroking his mustache.  "They seem like pieces of a puzzle, don't they?  Bits of time that don't add up.  A logical progression that refuses to fall into place.  And so that's how I treated it:  like puzzle pieces I just needed to put into the right order.  And then everything would make sense.  The village, the war, our lives and deaths."

He shook his head.  "And then Davenport fell from the sky, and started asking questions nobody could answer, and I realized something.  Every time I move the pieces around to try to get at the solution, the picture seems to change, and the solution slips from my grip.  It was subtle, at first.  But Davenport's presence made it obvious.  Our town's history, our understanding of where we were and how we got here, stretched to try to accommodate his presence, but there's no getting around that he's not supposed to be here.  And then I realized, this isn't a jigsaw puzzle at all.  I've been playing the wrong game.  It's _chess_ , my friend."

Flandal blinked.  "Chess?"

Garl nodded, tail swishing.  "Chess.  Someone's manipulating the board, shifting its pieces around.  But our opponent isn't trying to defeat us.  They're trying to keep the game in stasis.  It's a permanent stalemate, meant to keep us distracted and helpless."

"We have an opponent?"  He shook his head.  "That can't be right.  The war is over!  We lost.  What would anyone have to gain by…by keeping us captive here?"

"I don't know."  Garl began to pace, as he always did when trying to work something out in his head.  "But I do know that if I were trapped in a game in endless stalemate, my best strategy would be to do something unexpected, and see what happens.  Add a little chaos to the board, in the hopes of catching my opponent off-guard and creating an opening, or at least getting a better read on the nature of the game.  In this case, say…dropping someone into the village who was never supposed to come here."

Flandal's eyes narrowed.  "Davenport."

Garl smiled, and drew close to his friend, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  "He's our unexpected move, Flandal," he said.  "He is our _Utirhant_."

 

#

 

"Hey dad?"

Merle glanced over to Mavis.  She stood awkwardly on the sand, spine stiff, like she was barely holding back a flood of tears.  "Yeah, honey?"  He hadn't been in Parley long, maybe twenty minutes.  Barry and Taako stood nearby, silently consoling each other.  Barry was looking at the wedding ring on his finger.

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.  "I…I wanna go back home," she said.  "To see mom." 

He glanced over at Branda, who stood a few feet away.  She met his gaze and held up Mavis's Stone of Farspeech, which glowed softly.  Someone--Hekuba, probably--was on the line.

"Ya called her?" he asked Branda, already annoyed at her.

"Dad!  It was my choice."  Mavis really was crying now, but her words were firm.  "Branda didn't say anything."  She crossed her arms across her chest.  "It's just…I'm not mad at you or anything.  This doesn't have anything to do with you.  But everything's falling apart and I'm _scared_ , dad, and I wanna go home."

He looked at the glowing Stone, and at his daughter.  He swallowed his pride and nodded.  "All right," he said.  "If you're sure, we'll take ya back."  He checked on Mookie.  "What about you, li'l Fireball?"

Mookie still looked groggy from having been woken up in the middle of the night.  He blinked bleary-eyed up at Merle and said, "I wanna stay with you, pops."  He leaned against Merle's side, as much because he was dead on his feet as anything else.

Merle nodded, setting a hand on his son's shoulder.  "All right, then.  All right."

Barry quietly offered to give them a lift back to the Coralheart beach.  Sooner than he would have liked, he found himself standing on the piers outside Hekuba's pearl farm.  The ocean wasn't here, either; the lack of water exposed the dried-out oyster beds set in grids between stone markers.  The smell was pretty awful.

And there was Hekuba, striding down the docks, her pace speeding up.  She scooped up Mavis in a fierce hug.  "My baby girl," she said, her voice muffled in Mavis's hair. 

"Mom."  Mavis's voice was tight.  She sucked in a shaky, tearful breath. 

Mookie scrambled over the planks and hugged his mother too.  Merle just watched, trying to remind himself that just because they loved her didn't mean they loved him any less.  If there was one thing he remembered from the century, it was that love was boundless, and didn't diminish when spread around a family.  But it was still hard, sometimes.  A small part of his heart looked at that little knot of his ex and his two kids, and realized how much he'd messed up, and missed out on.

Finally, Hekuba stood.  "Merle," she said, in that flat tone she always used with him nowadays.

He sighed.  "Kids, can I have a minute alone with yer mom?"

Branda shared a quick glance with Hekuba, who nodded without taking her eyes off Merle.  "Come on, kids," said Branda, shooing Mookie and Mavis further down the pier.  Barry gave Merle a sympathetic look, and he and Taako followed.

He took a deep breath.  "Well," he said.  "I ain't gonna explain myself, because you already know it.  I ain't gonna excuse it, either.  I was a shitty husband, and a shittier father, and I'm sorry for that."

Hekuba looked at him, her face a blank mask.  She blinked once.

Another deep breath.  "When things got tough," he said, "I didn't know how ta handle it.  I didn't know how ta fix it.  So…so I ran.  I got tired, and I ran.  And that meant…well, dumpin' everything on you.  And…and I'm sorry for that, too.  I know our home life wasn't great, I know I was never the…the sort of dwarf that you wanted.  But I hurt you, and I'm sorry."

Hekuba shook her head, and laughed.  She didn't meet his eyes; her gaze swept over the empty ocean bed.  "It _would_ take the end of the world for Merle Highchurch to apologize to me," she said ruefully.  "You think I wasn't tired too, Merle?  You think I wasn't _exhausted_ , day in and day out, trying to wrangle two young kids and manage a household, with a husband who couldn't put down roots long enough to hold a steady job?  Who couldn't get out of his head long enough to do a chore or two around the house?" 

She looked straight at him, then, and Merle wished she hadn't, because her hard gray eyes were like knives in his chest.  His fingers tightened on the staff.

And then, in the back of his head, he heard a voice like a prayer.  _Then let those knives open my heart, so I can understand._  

He had no idea if Pan heard him.  But the tension in his shoulders eased, and that other little voice telling him to run, telling him this was a bad idea, shriveled up to nothing.  And he looked at Hekuba, really _looked_ at her for the first time in forever.  He saw the pain in her eyes, the weary wrinkles that lined the corners of her mouth and eyes. 

"I tried so hard to hold that household together, to build something that would _last_ ," she said.  "And for that, you made me the villain in your story, Merle.  I'm allowed to be angry about that."  She took a deep breath, and let it out again in a long exhale that seemed to release something in her.  Her shoulders relaxed, and the knives in her gaze went back into their sheathes.  "But it means a lot that you said that, Merle.  I'm…probably still gonna be mad at you for a while--"

He nodded, accepting this.

"--but this is…moving in the right direction."  Her gaze swept over the dried-up oyster beds, and the flash of a falling star glimmered in her eyes.  Merle realized there were tears there, unshed but definitely present. 

Merle nodded soberly.  "Yeah, I…there's a lotta shit I need to dig through," he said.  And he realized that was true.  His broken marriage had weighed on him for so many years, but it startled him to realize how little of it he had actually confronted honestly, either in-person or in his head.  "Maybe…when we've got the whole apocalypse thing sorted out and things settle, maybe we could…talk some more?  If ye'r up for it?"

Hekuba nodded.  "Yes, I think that might be a good thing.  Any progress on the apocalypse problem, by the way?"  She began to head down the pier, to rejoin the others.  Merle followed.

"Well, we got a lead," he said, which was the most optimistic spin he could put on all the shit that had gone down in Parley with Whisper.  "That's somethin'."

"It's a start," she said.

They met up with the others.  Mookie was leaning against Barry, eyes half-closed, and Taako was talking quietly to Mavis, probably about spells or something.  Hekuba gave Merle a firm handshake, and a sincere-sounding "Good luck."  Branda gave him a good-natured thump on the shoulder, and said, "Don't fuck this one up, okay?"  She was smiling as she said it. 

"I'll do my best," he said honestly.

Mavis gave Merle a stern warning to look after Mookie.  "He keeps trying to stick frogs in his pockets, which isn't very sanitary," she said.  Which was her way of saying she loved her brother dearly. 

Merle chuckled.  "He'll be fine," he said.  "I'll keep all of my one eye on him."

She smiled.  "I love you, dad," she said.  She gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.  And then she joined Hekuba and Branda, who made their way back to the sprawling Coralheart beach house.

The sky was just turning a pale, sickly gray over the dead ocean.  Dawn wasn't far off.  Mookie yawned.  Poor kid looked ready to drop. 

"Well?" Barry asked.  "Where to now?"  He kept rubbing his thumb over the ruby set into his ring. 

Merle sighed.  "Ya know," he said, "I think I oughta head up to the moon."

Barry's eyebrows lifted.

He shrugged.  He glanced over at Mookie, thinking at first to keep this secret, and then deciding he didn't want to hide anything from his kid.  "The Staff's reaching its limit.  Not sure if it's just run out of power, or if the connection ta Pan and Istus is finally fading.  But, uh, maybe I can do some good up there?  The Bureau, they do good work, and maybe Magnus and Lucy could use a…well, a hand." 

Barry nodded, drew his scythe, cut yet another hole in the air.  "You got it, bud."

Merle scooped up the dragging Mookie and stepped through.  The Bureau lawn was wet with dew, and chilly.  He shivered.  It was only a quick walk across the lawn to the room that Lucy always kept ready for him, whenever he wanted to visit.  He turned to Taako.  "What about you?"

Taako stared long and hard across the lawn, at the dome that held Lucy's office.  "M'goin' with Barold," he said.  "We gotta help Lup.  Keep 'em alive, okay?"

Merle nodded.  "Will do, ol' buddy."  He set a hand on Taako's hip, a quick reassurance.  Taako accepted the gesture without a word. 

And then he and Barry stepped back through the portal.  And Merle stood on the Bureau lawn beneath a failing sky, his sleeping son in his arms, and Pan never felt so far away.  He had no idea what to do next.

Well.  One thing at a time.  He crossed the lawn to the dorms, to find a bed for his precious son to sleep in.  He could do that, at least.

 

#

 

The nice thing about being one of the famed Saviors of Faerun meant that Magnus didn't have to waste time explaining who he was to people.  The normal layers of red tape parted in front of him, servants let him pass, and he could get to Lord Artemis Sterling's office without even having to use his time-stopping powers. 

"Hey, Lord Artemis!" he said, giving the door a perfunctory knock before just walking in.  "So, we need to talk."

Lord Artemis Sterling looked up from his desk, where he'd been frowning over a map.  An elegant tiefling woman stood nearby, dressed in a gown that poured over her like molten gold.  Jewels of many colors were set into her horns, and a band of silver and gold makeup covered the upper half of her face, making it look like she'd just come in from a fancy but understated masquerade.  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise as she saw Magnus.

Artemis's frown deepened.  "Mr. Burnsides," he said.  "While it's good to see you, now is not a good time.  Speak to Reginald outside, and he can set an appointment for you."

"Uh, it really can't wait," said Magnus.  "We need to talk _now_."

"Is it an emergency?"

"Well, considering you're starting a _war_ , yeah, I think that counts as an emergency!"

Artemis let out a sharp breath through his nose.  "I don't have time for this," he said.  "Lord Coronus is rallying his troops as we speak—"

Magnus froze time.  He pulled a filament of fate from his bracer, and tied it around Artemis's wrist.  The lord shuddered and took a deep breath.  He paused and looked around his office, which was washed out and frozen.  The grandfather clock in the corner hung between seconds, its pendulum in mid-swing.  The tiefling woman's mouth was open, as if she had been about to speak.

"Now," said Magnus, "we have plenty of time."

Artemis looked at the maps on his desk, and again at Magnus.  "All right," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "if you're going to insist, let's hear it."

 "You need to not go to war.  Now is not the time.  In fact, it's a very shitty time.  The world is ending?  Did you forget about that?  Because that seems like the bigger deal, here."

Artemis snorted.  "Believe me," he said, "I can't forget about that."  He waved a hand towards the window, where an endless wave of rain hung suspended in the air just outside the glass.  "But I have to defend my city, Magnus.  Mayor Coronus has declared his intent to march on my borders in retaliation for the attack on his city.  I think he was just looking for an excuse, to be perfectly honest.  He's looked with resentment at Neverwinter for a long time."

"So just talk to him!  Tell him you weren't behind it."

"I tried.  He's being unreasonable."

"Then just focus on defending yourself and your city!  The Bureau can help.  And you can keep your manpower here, to help your citizens."

Artemis let out another long breath, less frustrated and more resigned.  "Believe me," he said, "I considered that.  But the last thing my city needs right now is to deal with a direct assault on its walls.  I can't put my people at risk like that."  He looked again at the map, which showed the city's walls and was marked with a number of notations.  "My best chance is to go and meet him on the field, and hopefully stop this war before it gets going."

Magnus frowned.  He'd been to war before; not just Raven's Roost, but on many different worlds throughout the century.  If there was one thing he'd learned, war was never a quick or easy thing that allowed the winners to go home with minimal damage and no consequences.  War was always harder and messier than expected.  War dragged on and on, pulling everything through the bloody mud with it.

"Listen," he said, hoping that Artemis would hear the sincerity in his voice.  "It's not going to go the way you think.  There's one god left on Faerun, and he's the god of global war, and he's behind all of this.  Ruin, the Church of the Cleansing Fire—it's all him!  He's pushing the world to war, so if you do this, you're helping make him stronger."

Artemis's eyes widened.  He looked again at the map.

"Lord Sterling," he said, "you need to stop this."

Artemis sighed, and shook his head.  "I need to protect my people," he said.  "And for that, I need to go to battle.  I have no choice."

"There's always a choice!"

For a brief moment, Artemis's gaze was hard and cold.  "Fine," he said.  "There is.  And I have made mine."  Just as quickly, his gaze softened.  He smiled wearily.  "I _promise_ , Magnus, it'll be quick.  A single battle, and then it'll all be over.  It's not going to empower him, because it won't be a global war."  He nodded towards the tiefling woman.  "This is Lady Aeshia Silverthorn.  She's been assisting me with this matter.  She's like you, Magnus.  A protector.  She doesn't want a lengthy war any more than you or I do."

Magnus looked at her.  "This, uh, isn't great," he said finally. 

"I know," said Artemis, setting a hand on Magnus's arm.  "But I must protect my people.  And there are other people who need _your_ protection, Magnus.  If the Bureau works to safeguard my civilians and assist while we are short on manpower, I'd appreciate it."

Magnus still didn't like it.  He had a feeling, in the back of his head, that this was going to break bad.  But he also got a sense that Artemis wasn't going to be convinced by him.  Not today, at least. 

"Now, if you'd kindly undo this time-stop," said Artemis, "I think we're done here."

Magnus did.  Lady Silverthorn began to move.  "I'll send a Bureau agent down to arrange for helping your civilians," he said. 

Artemis nodded in thanks.

"Magnus Burnsides," said the tiefling.  "It is an honor to meet one of the Seven Birds, in the flesh!"  She extended a hand in greeting.  Magnus shook it; her fingers, like those of all tieflings, were unusually warm against his. 

She smiled a close-lipped smile.  "I am a big fan of your work," she said. 

He felt a tingling in the back of his head, and then a flood of warm feeling towards this elegant lady.  "Aw, it's nothing," he said.  "Saving the world is just what us heroes do."

"Of course," she said.  "Now, I'm sure you're very busy, helping to save the world.  So I won't keep you.  I only hope that you understand Lord Sterling's position, and will fully support our endeavors here to ensure Neverwinter's safety."

"Oh, definitely!  Yeah, definitely."  Of course he wanted to ensure Neverwinter's safety.  And he knew she wanted that, too.  She was a good person, and was only trying to help. 

"Now, you'll leave us to it," she said.  "I'm sure you have a lot to do on the moon."

"Yeah," he said, nodding.  "I'll leave you both to it.  I gotta get back up to the moon, and…ya know, do moon stuff.  Bureau stuff.  Since I'm running it now."

She smiled.  "Then it's in good hands, I'm sure."

He grinned, shook her hand again, and left.  At least that was taken care of.

This war would be over in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so, I wanted to drop a quick note about a tiny edit I've made to an earlier chapter. I realized I had mixed up some terms in reference to D&D gods, using "domain" when what I should have used was "portfolio." For those not up on their D&D lingo, a "domain" is the broad category a god falls into, such as War, Life, Order, etc. (It can also refer to their home realm.) "Portfolio" is the god's specific focus, such as hospitality, crafting, sweet yo-yo tricks, etc. This really only came up incorrectly in Chapter 27, when the gods held their town hall, but I went back and tweaked a few things there, and I will be using the terms correctly going forward.


	34. Book Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz considers his options. Jeff Jeffins gets the scoop. Davenport pulls a Garl.

"Well," said Mr. Nim.  "I'll be damned.  There it is."

Kravitz looked at him over the open pages of the Book of Dawn.  Mr. Nim just tapped the latest entry. 

"The birth of Whisper," he said.  "Faerun's newest god.  Dated about 15 years ago, smack-dab in the middle of the Relic Wars.  Has about a dozen different titles, including 'The Guiding Whisper' and 'He Who Stands Above the Battlefield.'  Cheeky one, isn't he?"

'Cheeky' was not the word Kravitz would use to describe him.  Dangerous, perhaps.  Dangerously clever.

"Domain: War," Mr. Nim continued to read.  "Portfolio: global warfare, weapons of mass destruction.  Worshippers include arms dealers, warmongers, weaponsmiths, tacticians, politicians."

Kravitz paced in the little room beside the Book of Dawn and Dusk.  "But is there any information we can _use?"_ he asked.

"Going up against a god isn't normally something mortals can do," said Mr. Nim.  "The gods wage war among themselves, and mortals wage war among themselves.  Our conflicts are often reflections of their conflicts, but theirs are so far above ours.  Literally cosmic in scale.  It would be like an ant waging war against the wind."

Kravitz frowned.  The gods may be empowered by those who worshipped them, but using that as a vector to restrain Whisper might be futile at this point.  It was unlikely, with the way things were unfolding, to get everyone on the planet to outright reject war.  And if they did, the whole world would immediately fall apart, as its last divine pillar crumbled.

The fact that Davenport was still alive inside Ruin suggested that the other gods were in there, too, alive but trapped.  Could a rescue be possible?  Ruin wasn't quite like the Hunger: the gods' power still lingered in the world, even though they were cut off from it.  But that divine energy was draining fast. 

He thought back to when the Hunger swamped the celestial planes.  He'd never thought that anything could separate him from his Queen.  But the Hunger had done it so easily.  He'd felt so helpless then, so infinitesimally small against those endless waves of black tar.  But Taako had found a way to open a portal and save him.  And that one chink in the wall was enough.  The gods had once again connected to the mortal plane, and that had begun the turning of the tides.

The solution was staring them right in the face:  they needed to take down Ruin.  They needed to find, or create, a chink in that construct's armor.  They couldn't take down Whisper until the other gods were free. 

But its armor was impenetrable.  Even Davenport's divine axe hadn't been able to penetrate it fully, and the Flaming Raging Poisoning Sword of Doom hadn't even scratched the surface.  As a construct, Ruin had no soul for him to reap, so a scythe would be useless.

There had to be something he could do.  To help Taako and his family, to help Lup, to help his Queen--

"Kravitz." 

He looked up. 

Mr. Nim closed the Book with a firm snap.  "You seem lost," he said.

He shook his head.  "Just frustrated," he said.  "Taako wants me here, where I'm safe.  But I want to be out there, helping him.  But even if I were out on the Prime, I wouldn't know what to do."  He returned to his pacing.  "I think the key is taking down Ruin, but that thing is all impenetrable armor.  It feels like we're just hitting dead ends with this god."

Mr. Nim sighed.  "The Astral Sea is getting restless again," he said.  "I'm going to go up to the shore and play.  Perhaps you would like to join me."

"I'm not sure now is a good time--"

"Kravitz.  It will clear your head."  He turned to head back up the stairs.  "Now.  Ruin.  You think that should be the target.  It is formed from the power of a god of war.  Perhaps you can cut it off from its power source, or strike it with something divine yet antithetical to its nature?"

He smiled ruefully.  "Hit it with a devastating beam of pure love?" he asked.  "The Light of Creation might help there, but we don't have that."

"Then, what do you have?  Kravitz, you're still seeing only a series of individual notes, each of which is not enough for a song.  Look at what you have, and try to see it holistically."

Kravitz stopped on the stairs, looking up at Mr. Nim.  Mr. Nim gave him that look of perpetual disappointment that always seemed etched on his face.  Kravitz turned away, and his gaze landed on the door to the Archives.

Mr. Nim sighed.  "Just think about it," he said.  "Let it come together in your head.  I'll be up on the beach, when you're ready." 

And then Kravitz was alone.  He sighed and headed for the Archives, to retrieve the last vestiges of a life he'd almost forgotten about.  A life that Mr. Nim had stored away for him, against the day he might need it again.

 

#

 

Jeff Jeffins sat in the waiting room, hoping for a chance to see Lord Artemis Sterling.  The never-ending rain pounded at the windows.  For the tenth time since he'd arrived two hours ago, he unfolded the latest issue of the Jeff Report, scanning the articles to keep his mind occupied.

Today's headline, partly smudged from having been printed in the damp basement of the Jeff Report offices, proudly touted "Red Rock Orchestra Continues Daily Performances."  It wasn't as reassuring a piece as he'd like, but his reporters were running out of any "normal" routines to cover.  The world was getting worse and worse, and the determination of one of Faerun's best orchestras to keep performing to the very end only served to remind him that the end was still coming.

His continued attempts to reach Lucretia to ask for the Bureau's help had been unsuccessful.  Lord Artemis Sterling was a long shot, and Jeff wasn't a fan of revealing the Report's secret mission to someone who had not personally met JeffAndrew.  But if he could convince the ruler of Neverwinter of the need for the Jeff Report's continued work, and get assistance to move the press to a safer, dryer location, perhaps it was worth it.

He hoped it would be worth it.

He looked up as the office door opened, and Magnus Burnsides stepped out.  He had a big goofy grin on his face, and he walked like a person who had just had all his burdens lifted from his shoulders. 

Jeff Jeffins stood up.  Magnus was a friend of Lucretia.  Perhaps he could help get in contact with her?  He folded up the paper and tucked it under his arm.  "Mr. Burnsides--one moment, please?"

Magnus didn't slow.  "Sorry, friend, but no time for autographs!" he said, his big grin never flagging.  "I have to get up to the moon to do moon stuff."

Before Jeff could reply to this strange comment, the door to Lord Sterling's office swung open, and an elegantly-dressed tiefling woman stepped out to whisper something to the manservant posted there.  The manservant nodded to Jeff.  "Lord Artemis Sterling will be seeing no one else today," he declared.

The tiefling smiled and slipped back into the office, closing the door behind her.

Jeff frowned.  That was odd.  He approached the manservant.  "Who was that?"

"Sir, that is privileged information," he said in a clipped, imperious tone.  "Lord Sterling will be seeing nobody else today.  I'm going to have to ask that you leave the premises and come back tomorrow."

He cleared his throat.  "Wait," he said, "I have a press pass!"  He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a small square of paper, stating his credentials as a reporter.

A flash of light appeared in the man's eyes. 

"Who is that tiefling woman currently meeting with Lord Sterling?" he asked.

"Lady Aeshia Silverthorn," said the manservant.  "She is Lord Sterling's arms merchant, providing weapons and armaments for the City of Neverwinter."  The eerie magical light dimmed, and he blinked.

"Of course," said Jeff, putting the enchanted card away.  Normally, flashing it in someone's face activated a temporary modified Zone of Truth, allowing him to receive honest answers for three questions.  But magic had become finicky lately, and he was lucky to get one or two questions answered before the zone fizzled.  He wasn't about to press his luck here.  "Thank you, I'll just be taking my leave."  He gave a short bow and left. 

Curious.  He might have missed connecting with Magnus, but he may have fallen into something deeper.

 

#

 

Davenport kept his eyes fixed on the bond analyzer's readouts as he walked down the main street in town.  The bond energy in the town was definitely at higher levels than they had been.  Not only among the citizen gods, but in the atmosphere itself.  Not a substantial jump, but enough to be noticeable.

The only difference between yesterday and today was that he'd confronted every god in town, and forced them to think about why they were here.  It hadn't gone _well_.  He hadn't been able to say much.  But it had nudged them, just enough.  Shaken them out of their complacency.

Garl's jump was the most noticeable, and now the leader of the gnome pantheon had been able to access--however briefly--some of his divine power.  And he suspected Cyrrollalee had, too, in blessing him. 

So.  He just had to keep pushing.  If the gods gained back enough of their memories and their power, maybe they could find a way to break out of here--

_"You there,"_ a voice declared.  "Mirthless one!"

He stopped.  A silver scythe was aimed straight at his throat.  He looked up to see the Raven Queen, her mouth pursed in a tight frown.

"You have tampered with my records," she said.  "I demand answers at once!"

"Uh…I'm sorry," he said, "I'm not sure what--"

"Violating the records is a crime against the natural order," she said, the blade of her scythe drawing closer.  "I do not know how you managed to tamper with them, but you will cease at once, and undo the damage you have caused!"

He stepped back, hands raised in what he hoped she would take as a gesture of peace.  "Look, I--I honestly don't know what you're talking about," he said.  "What records?"

"Cease your lying, mirthless one!  I know it was you!  I--"

"Raven!"  Istus came running up to her.  "What are you doing?"

"Confronting this _interloper_ , who had the temerity to manipulate _my records!_   No doubt for some devious purpose which I am attempting to discover--"

"I have no idea what she's talking about!" said Davenport, edging further away from the gleaming scythe.  "I didn't touch anything of hers!"

"You mean Davenport?"  Istus frowned.  "Are you sure?"

The Raven Queen frowned.  "Of course I am sure!  Did you not find his presence here _odd,_ Istus?  He has done nothing but disrupt the peace and ask bizarre questions which have no answers, and this _wall_ which he took us to, which I cannot even _fathom_ what it is or why it is there--"  She winced, as if even considering the strange wall around this place made her head hurt.  She took a deep breath, as Istus laid a hand gently on her arm.  "I was willing to tolerate it, even indulge it.  But now, he has crossed a line, Istus, and that cannot be allowed."

Istus gave a sympathetic look to both of them.  Davenport shrugged and shook his head. 

"What do you think he has done?" she said.  "Maybe we can get to the bottom of this."

"He altered my recordbook!"  The Raven Queen held out a hand, where a hefty tome appeared.  For a split second, surprise flashed across her face.  As if she hadn't quite expected the book to appear.  But she gathered herself up with an imperious sniff, and showed it to Istus.  "This book is supposed to mark the deaths of every citizen in town, when they finally happen," she said.  "But now I am seeing entries for people not of this town.  Strangers whose names I don't recognize." 

Istus flipped to the most recent pages.  She frowned.  Davenport drew close, trying to get up on his tip-toes to see, but the Raven Queen lowered her scythe between them in a warning gesture.  Istus raised an eyebrow and lifted the scythe, allowing Davenport to draw closer.  He did so, sidling close to her side while keeping one eye on the Queen.  Istus tilted the book down so he could see.  The page showed several unfamiliar names of various races, whose "date of death" was the same.  As he watched, another name appeared: a human whose cause of death was listed as "old age."

Davenport's eyes widened.  These were deaths that were happening now.  On Faerun.  The date they listed must be the current date on the Prime Material Plane.

"Wait," he said, even as the Raven Queen tried to grab the book from him.  "Wait, wait, _wait!_   Do you realize what this means?"

The question brought the Queen up short.  Her eyes narrowed.  "That…that you tampered with my records?"

He shook his head.  He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.  "Your book is connecting with the outside world!" he said, pointing to the new entries.  "Cracks may be forming in the barrier!  Maybe not enough to get a person through, but enough for bonds to connect us--"  He looked at Istus, and at the Raven Queen.  "Come with me," he said.  "I have an idea!"  And he turned and hurried back to Garl's house.  The two goddesses followed.

Back at the house, he led them straight down the stairs to his still-wrecked basement lab.  He heard Cyrrollalee's voice drifting up before he saw her.

"…just don't _remember_ casting a shield spell," she said. 

"But you _did_ bless him," said Garl gently.  "And _somehow_ a shield manifested--oh, hello, Davenport!  We were just talking about you."  Garl grinned up at him.  "And I see you brought some friends!  Hello Raven, Istus.  Delightful to see you!"

Cyrrollalee gave him a warm smile.  But there was a question behind her eyes, a shadow of confusion.  It was a look Davenport was seeing on a lot of faces around here lately.

He crossed the room and started clearing charred bits of debris off the worktable.  "I have an idea," he said.  "I have no idea if it'll work, but I have to try."

"Oh?"  Garl tugged at one curling end of his mustache.  "And what's the plan brewing for today?"

"The Raven Queen's book is connecting to the outside world," said Davenport.  "I suspect bonds are beginning to connect us to the outside world."  He brushed aside the shattered remnants of the aquamarine.  "If I could somehow use that connection, I might be able to re-establish a communication array.  Perhaps…Istus, do you have any yarn?"

She looked surprised that he would even ask.  "Of course!" she said.  "I have quite a stash--"

"I'd like to borrow some," he said.  "The array I'm thinking of will have to take an indirect route, so the signal will be weaker.  But the bonds of fate are powerful things, and I could use them to boost the signal.  Garl, I'll need another gemstone lens."

"Another aquamarine?"

"Oh Garl, don't encourage him!" said Cyrrollalee.  "Another explosion like last night could kill him!"

"It won't be like last night," said Davenport, turning to face her.  To face all of them.  "It would be too dangerous to try to ride on Whisper's power again.  Believe me, the last thing I want to do is--is attract more of his attention."  A shudder ran down his spine, despite his best efforts to contain it.  "So we don't try to connect directly with the Prime.  That's…that's exactly what he expects.  Instead, we bounce the signal through the Plane of Thought, and from there back to the Prime!  We go backwards to go forward!"

Garl scooped him up in a sudden, tight hug, lifting him off the ground.  He was grinning from ear to ear.  "Davenport, that's the most Garl-ish thing you've ever said!  I'm so proud of you!"

Davenport felt his face trying to smile.


	35. To End a War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus deflects. Merle suspects. Arumdina reflects.

It was nearly noon by the time an exhausted Merle woke up, got himself and Mookie some breakfast, and then went looking for Magnus.  Apparently he'd been promoted, and had set up shop in Lucretia's office.  Lucretia herself had retreated to her little _sanctum sanctorum_ , 'writing to keep the world alive,' whatever that meant.  In any case, Magnus was there behind her big oak desk, and Lucretia wasn't. 

Killian was already there with him.  "So wait, the war's still on?  Isn't that a bad thing?"

"Nah, it'll be fine," said Magnus.  "Lord Artemis just wants to defend his city.  It'll be one small battle, just to keep the Goldcliff forces away.  All we have to do is send some agents down to Neverwinter, to help keep the city running smoothly while the troops are gone.  The flooding is getting pretty bad, and it's disrupting the food supply.  That should be our main priority."

Killian stood there, jaw open.  She brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes.  "Magnus, what are you talking about?  You went down there specifically because the war was a bad idea!"

Magnus took a deep breath.  "I hear you, Killian, and I understand where you're coming from.  But he has to protect his city.  Now, are you gonna help me figure out the logistics of helping Neverwinter, or…?"

She sighed.  "Okay, fine," she said.  "But let the record show that I have strong reservations about the whole 'one quick battle, then it's over, no big deal' thing."

Magnus grinned.  "I knew I could count on you!  Now—oh, hey Merle!"  The big guy waved a hand and gestured him over.  "How's the whole healing-the-land operation going?"

"Eh…not great, if I'm bein' honest," he admitted, trying and failing to ignore the worry that plainly appeared on Killian's face.  "Staff's runnin' outta juice.  Thought I'd come up here to see if I can—"

The doors swung open again.  Avi and Carey came striding in, followed by a young kobold that Merle didn't recognize.

"Magnus, you're back!" said Avi.  "Killian, did you tell him our idea?"

"I was just getting to that," she said.  "I guess I was distracted by the whole 'Neverwinter and Goldcliff are at war' thing."  She rolled her eyes.

"Oh yeah, that," said Avi, his shoulders visibly sagging.  "I grew up in Neverwinter.  It's…tough, seeing it right now."

Magnus put a hand on Avi's shoulder.  "It'll be all right," he said.  "The city will be safe.  Now, what's this idea you have?"

Avi looked at the others, gave Merle a welcoming wave, and cleared his throat.  "Well, so Ozzie's been helping us track down Ruin, and we think we've got its route mostly mapped.  But the problem is catching up to it, right?  Even if we got the base into a position where whe know it's coming, we can't move fast enough to keep up with it."

Magnus nodded.

He looked at the kobold, then at Magnus.  "Sooo…we were wondering, what if Lucretia cast her barrier around it?  It's super powerful, right?  Even without the Light, it could be powerful enough to hold Ruin in place, long enough for us to do…well, something.  Find a way to destroy it, or at least do some significant damage."

"The only thing we don't know," added Killian, "is how to damage it, once we have it.  That's still, uh, a big fat unknown."

"I actually like it!" said Magnus.  "I am a big fan of shields, and I think Lucy's should be strong enough to hold it."  He glanced back at the door that led to Lucretia's inner office.  "I'll run it by her, see what she thinks.  In the meantime, Killian, work with Brad to get five agents down to Neverwinter, to help with disaster management and flood relief.  And see if we have any good fighters we can spare for their walls."

Killian gave Magnus a long, level look.  "Yes sir," she finally said, and turned to leave the office.  She tilted her head towards the others, indicating they should follow her.  Merle shrugged and went along.

She was silent for a minute, as they headed down the long hallway to the elevator.  "There's something odd about this," she said finally.  "Magnus went down there to _stop_ the war, not to shrug and give it his stamp of approval."

"I guess we just have to trust Magnus's judgment," said Avi.

"That's the thing," said Killian.  "I don't.  There's something really fuckin' odd about how he was acting.  I know he's a fighter and he's got a few wars under his belt, but that's exactly why it seems strange that he's not more worried about this."

Carey frowned.  "It _is_ really odd.  He's all for rushing in, but he fights so others don't have to.  That's the point."

"…Huh."  Avi looked between them.  "Merle, what do you think?  You know him best.  You think he's acting odd?"

Merle chewed his lower lip.  Come to think of it, Magnus _was_ acting a little strange.  He was a big softie, and never did like the thought of war, even if he was willing to throw his hat in the ring when it counted—

He stopped in his tracks.  Whisper.

What if the god had somehow gotten to Magnus, too?  Made him an emissary and was somehow manipulating him?  Merle leaned against the wall, feeling faint.

"Merle?  You okay?"  He heard Avi's voice over the roar of blood in his ears.

"This is bad," said Merle.  "Real bad."

"Yeah, no shit," said Killian.  "There's no such thing as a quick, easy war."

"War is always messy," said the kobold, suddenly.  "It always spins out of control, and everyone thinks they can hit the brakes at any time, but the brakes…they're almost as bad as the war itself."

Everyone turned to look at her.  She seemed to shrivel beneath the attention.  She looked at her feet, dug one clawed toe along the metal flooring.  "The only thing that stops a war is devastation.  A battle so bad it shatters one or both sides.  Like Stonehollow," she added, those last two words spoken so quietly that Merle could barely hear them.

Killian sighed.  "We need to get down there and stop them," she said.  "Hopefully before their forces even meet."

"Yeah, we can stop the war before it starts!" said Carey.

"I'll go," Merle heard himself saying.

The others were all looking at him, now.  He sighed deeply.  He could feel the weariness in his very bones. 

"Lord Artemis and I are buddies," he said.  "Maybe he'll listen to me."  He looked back down the hallway towards Lucretia's office—Magnus's office now.

Killian nodded.  "Well," she said, "it's the best shot we've got."

"Just keep an eye on Mookie.  Hopefully I won't be long, but ya take your eye off my kid for a minute, and he'll be up to his ears in mud an' broken furniture.  And frogs, apparently.  They're a thing with him now."

"Will do, bud," said Carey, clapping one hand on his shoulder. 

Merle sighed.  He might be the Peacemaker, but he had no idea if this was gonna work.  It was getting harder and harder to believe that anything was going to go the way he expected.

But he had to try.  He _had_ to try. 

What else could he do?

 

#

 

Deep beneath the hill known as the Mithral Forge, Arumdina lay propped up in the corner, watching Flandal work at his anvil.  She sighed to herself.

Flandal paused his hammering and glanced over at her.  "Give him time, my child," he said, his eyes full of sympathy.  "He's in mourning.  He'll come around soon enough."

Flandal was the only person Arumdina would allow to call her 'child'.  Then again, he'd been the one to forge her.  So, in a way, that made him something like a father.

She said nothing.  She just lay against the wall, watching the busy bustle of Flandal and his assistants, just as she'd done every day for…months?  Years?  Ever since Garl threw her in a fury at Flandal's feet, and ordered him to make a better weapon.  One that knew how to follow orders, one that didn't overstep her bounds.

Damn.  She'd mucked everything up, hadn't she? 

Flandal stuck his latest work into a bucket of water, sending up a hiss of steam.  After a moment, he pulled it out and held it up to the glow of the forge. 

It was a beautiful war axe.  Mithral-infused blade with a golden edge, carved oak shaft with a jeweled pommel.  Even more beautiful than the first two replacement axes he'd forged.  And even more shoddily-built.  That join was going to snap the moment Garl used it to crack open anything harder than a walnut--assuming the edge of soft, untempered, unenchanted gold didn't crumple first.

"You don't have to do this," she said, as she'd already said a dozen times.

Flandal shrugged.  But there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.  He handed the axe off to an apprentice, to be sent up to Garl.

She expected it to play out the same as it had for the previous two axes:  in a few days, Garl would send the ruined weapon back down to the forge, along with a tersely-worded note telling him to do better.

But this time, Garl came down in person.  Tucked out of sight around a corner, she couldn't see him.  But she heard him perfectly well, as he stormed down the stairs and threw the shattered weapon at Flandal's feet.

"I know what you're doing," said Garl.  "I'll have none of it.  Do your job, as I have commanded."

Flandal took a deep breath through his prodigious nose, and let out a long sigh.  "I already forged you a weapon worthy to be your right arm, Garl.  Arumdina was my finest work.  I can do no better."

"And so you send me junk in protest?  How am I supposed to protect my people with weapons that shatter like glass in my hands?"

Flandal brought the hammer down hard on the anvil.  "You threw her away," he said.  "She was your boon companion, serving you faithfully for eons, and you threw her away."

"She was a tool," Garl growled.  "And what use to me is a tool that cannot do its job—"

There was a crack of flesh against flesh, followed by deadly silence.

"Did you just…slap me?" said Garl.  "In the _face?_ You _dare_ \--"

"I do!" said Flandal.  "Because somebody in this pantheon has to knock some sense into you, and if it has to be me, then so be it!  All these centuries of our people at war has got you all tangled up inside, you don't even know up from down anymore!"

"That is _not_ —"

"No—you will hear me speak!"  Flandal's voice boomed like a hammerstrike through the enormous cave that was his realm and workshop.  "I was your first companion, Garl.  You've always come to me for advice and I have never steered you wrong.  So heed me now, Garl.  What happened at Stonehollow was a _mistake_.  An awful, terrible accident.  Nobody intended for it to fall out the way it did.  You think you're the only one who's grieving?"  Flandal paused, his voice breaking on the last word.  "Now is not the time to turn your back on your friend, who only sought to help you with every fiber of her being."  

"She crossed a line, Flandal," Garl said, his voice tight.

"And did you warn her about that line?  Did you inform her of the consequences, before sending her off to 'end the war'?"

Silence.

"Of course you didn't," said Flandal.  "Because _you didn't know_.  You were as ignorant as she was, weren't you?"

An age seemed to pass in silence, before Garl answered him.  "The massacre would never have happened.  Dairwin would still be—"  He broke off.

"I know," said Flandal.  He sounded weary.  "And Arumdina knows, too.  As I said, you're not the only one in mourning.  Garl," and his words were softer now, more like the kindly father-figure she'd known for ages, "you need her.  And she needs you."

The only sound in the cavern was the muted roar of the ever-burning forge.  Every tool was stilled, every anvil mute.  Arumdina braced herself, waiting for Garl's answer to come like a hammer blow upon her blades.

"I…must think on this," he muttered, the answer slipping from him and clattering on the floor.  And then she heard his footsteps retreating up the stairs.

 

#

 

"Where is Garl?"

Dairwin's resonant voice pulled Arumdina abruptly out of her ruminations.  "Oh.  Hey, Dairwin," she said.  "I don't know.  Same as yesterday."

And the day before that, and the day before—how long had she been here?  Gods, she'd been stuck blade-deep in this table so long, she'd gotten to thinking about the _last_ time she'd been stuck in place for what felt like forever.  Only, when she'd been in Flandal's forge, Garl had finally come for her.  He'd picked her up in silence and set out for one of his patrols through the Golden Hills.  For days, he'd said nothing.  Finally he sat down at an overlook, regarded the trees tinged gold in perpetual sunset, and said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," she'd said.

And then they'd talked for a long time, in muted, tentative voices, while Garl watched his people quietly dismantle the war machine that had run their warrens for centuries.

She sighed.  Garl probably wasn't coming back this time.  The world was going to end, and she was going to be stuck in this table.  Garl's final gambit, a failure.

Brighthall was beginning to fall apart, as the last of his power drained away.  Cracks ran through the walls, the jewel-toned tapestries were fading to gray, and even the eternal sunset that usually bathed the hall in warm golden light finally seemed to be dropping away, leaving the hall dim and colorless.

Only the jewels embedded in the stone walls seemed to glow softly still, sending spangles of colored light across the hall.  The jewel-lights moved slowly, like bodies turning over in sleep.

It had been Garl's last act before heading off to face Ruin:  to turn the souls of all his past emissaries back into gems, so they could be safe.  Unfortunately, that meant none of them could help her.  None of them was even aware that the world was ending.  They'd just sleep right through it.  And she was alone.

Well.  Except for Dairwin.

"Looks like it's just you and me till the end, Dairwin," she said.  "I feel like that should be some high-level ironic symbolism right there, but damned if I know what it's supposed to mean."

Dairwin stared at her with her unblinking jewel-eyes.  Her tail swept back and forth in agitation, the white flame at its tip skimming the carpet but never igniting it.  "Where is Garl?" she repeated.  "I await his instructions."

"He's not coming back, Dairwin," said Arumdina.  "Do you understand that?  He's gone, all right?"

"He is not gone," said Dairwin.  "His power still flows through me.  Does he require rescue?"

"We tried that," she said.  "And now Davenport is gone, and I don't know what else to do!  Maybe the other Birds are doing something, maybe Magnus got away from Ruin—but I can't get to them without Garl.  I can't even get out of this table on my own!  I can't—it's all coming apart and I'm _useless_ , and I'm sorry, Dairwin."  The apology burst out of her, surprising her. 

Dairwin stared at her, her jewel eyes unblinking.

Arumdina sighed.  Well, the world was ending anyway.  She might as well say what she should have said a long time ago. 

"I'm sorry for everything," she said.  "Not just this, but…what happened to you.  It was my fault, and I'm sorry.  You didn't deserve any of this.  You don't have to forgive me, but I wanted you to know."

Dairwin said nothing.

Arumdina sighed, and lapsed back into silence.  She'd said all she had to say.  Now to just wait for the world to crumble.

"New target acquired," said Dairwin.  "Magnus Burnsides.  Emissary of Istus, friend to Emissary Davenport.  Location: Bureau of Benevolence headquarters."  She grabbed Arumdina by the hilt, and yanked her out of the table with one furry, clawed hand.

"Whoa—Dairwin, what are you doing?!"  The room spun around her, leaving her dizzy after being stationary for so long.  "Wait…you can hold me?"

"I am an extension of Garl's will," said Dairwin.  "His power flows through me."  Her arm glowed with golden light, which flowed down into her hand and into Arumdina's shaft. 

Arumdina grabbed the power by instinct, shaping it into something she could use.  Her whole form burned with it.  She pictured herself melting into a mold, cooling and hardening into a new shape.  The power burst inside her.

She landed on two feet.  She was a gnome in golden armor, and she was standing up on her own. 

She stared at her hands.  "Oh…oh wow," she said.  She ran her fingers over the top of her head.  She had a head, and hair, and a whole face and everything.  "Dairwin—you did it!"

She raised her brand-new fists in the air and whooped heartily, and promptly fell over.

Dairwin tilted her head.  "Do you require assistance?"

Arumdina snorted.  "Okay, so balance is an issue.  We'll work on that."  She held out a hand.  Dairwin gripped it and hauled her back to her feet. 

It was then that Arumdina noticed the crackling fuzziness at the edges of Dairwin's form, which hadn't been there a moment before.  Like she was starting to come apart, same as Brighthall.

That wasn't good.  Dairwin was held together by Garl's power.  And she'd just poured a lot of it into Arumdina.  "Dairwin?" she asked, keeping her voice even. 

Dairwin shuddered.  Golden lightning crackled down her back and to the tip of her flaming tail, leaving a scorchmark on the fading rug.

"Oh boy.  Dairwin, just stay calm, and I'll…I'll try to get help, okay?  I just need to figure out how to get down to the other Birds.  Maybe Magnus has some idea what's going on--"

The air beside her tore open with one slice of Dairwin's claws.  Far below them, on the other side of the rift, the hovering moon base drifted over Faerun.

"Target locked on," she said, lifting Arumdina with two of her arms.

It occurred to Arumdina, then, that gnome bodies were not balanced for throwing, and she was a lot squishier than she was two minutes ago.  "Wait, Dairwin—!"

That was the last thing she said before Dairwin hurled her through the rift.  And then she was falling towards the moon base with alarming speed.

Well.  Assuming she survived, this was gonna be one hell of a story to tell.


	36. Friends in Strange Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus breaks up a fight. Merle tries an old classic. Mookie makes a new friend.

Magnus was sitting in his office when the Charm spell finally wore off.  "Oh shit!" he said. 

"Yeah, no kidding!" said Killian, who had posted herself at the door a short while ago.

"It's about time," said Carey.  "Glad to have you back, bud!"

"Shit," he said again, as the pieces fell into place.  The tiefling lady, and Artemis going to war, and Magnus being totally convinced that this was all a-okay.  "I need to get back down there!"  He was already halfway to the door.  "Where's Merle?"

"Merle's already down in Neverwinter by now," said Carey.  "He's gonna try to talk to Artemis, since they're buddies.  We, uh, just need to keep an eye on Mookie.  Wherever he is."

"Probably still sleeping," said Killian.  "He had a long night, apparently.  Trust me, when he wakes up, the whole base is gonna know."

Magnus pulled out his Stone.  He was relieved to know Merle was already on it.  Merle might have a better shot at convincing Artemis, anyway.  But he needed to be warned about that tiefling lady.

He just caught a glance of something bright falling from the sky, before a loud boom sounded from the quad.

"What the hell was that?" said Killian.

"A shooting star?" asked Carey.

Magnus was already rushing towards the impact site, Team Sweet Flips on his heels.  He shoved the Stone back in his pocket.

A small crowd had developed around a smoking crater.  He pushed his way through.  The smoke cleared, revealing a gnome in golden plate armor, trying to pull herself out of the hole.  Her oak-brown hair was cut into a severe bob, and her face was smudged with soot from her landing.  She looked up and grinned.

"Magnus!" she cried, leaping out of the hole and landing flat on her face.  "Oof, I need to get used to this," she grumbled into the dead grass.

He blinked.  Her voice sounded familiar, but he didn't recognize her at all.  He crouched down and extended a hand to help her up.  "Uh, hail and well met!" he said. 

She put her hand in his, and he hauled her to her feet.  She stared at their clasped hands.  "Oh my Garl," she said, "you can touch me!"

"Uh…yeah?  That's how hand-holding works."

She looked up at him.  "Magnus," she said, "it's me, Arumdina!  I turned into a gnome, and now I can walk around on my own!"  She pointed to her feet.  "See?  I have toes and everything!  Well, they're inside the boots but I can definitely confirm, I have _toes!_ "

Magnus's jaw dropped.  "Arumdina?!"

She chuckled.  "In the flesh, finally!"

He stared at her, at his cool axe buddy who wasn't an axe anymore.  "Can I hug you?"

She looked at her arms, seemed to realize something, and threw herself into his embrace.  "Um, _yes!_ " she cried.  "Wow, this is a hug?  It feels amazing!"

"Yeah, hugs are the best!"  He was grinning.

"Oh Magnus, it's so good to see you!  I thought I was gonna be stuck in that table forever, unable to get down here to help, and with Garl gone, and Davenport--"  She broke off, her smile fading.

"Wait."  Magnus gripped her by the shoulders.  "You don't know, do you?  Davenport's alive!  He's stuck inside Ruin, but he's alive.  We saw him in Parley!"

Arumdina's eyes widened.  "He…he's…?"  She pressed the heel of one hand into her left eye.  "Uh, why are my eyes leaking?" she asked.

Magnus smiled.  "It's gonna be okay," he said.  "We'll get him out.  And we'll get all the gods back, too.  We just need a plan, but we're working on it, I promise!  Oh man, we have a _lot_ to catch you up on…"  He got to his feet.  "Everyone, this is Arumdina, and she's working with us now.  Arumdina, welcome to the Bureau of Benevolence."

Killian smiled.  "Well, we're getting all sorts of new employees," she said.  "You can learn the ropes with Ozzie."  She gestured to the kobold, who was huddling behind her, eyes wide.  Ozzie squeaked.

"Behind you!" Arumdina cried, and launched herself at Ozzie.

Ozzie screamed.  Without thinking, Magnus dropped and threw himself between them.  Arumdina's blades dug deep into his shoulder plating.  He hadn't even noticed she'd had axe blades, two of them, curving out of her golden greaves.

"Stop it!" he said.  "What are you doing?"

"She's a kobold!" Arumdina shouted.  "Get outta my way, I'll take her down before she can get away!"

Killian was down in a crouch, arm out in a block.  "You'll have to go through me first," she growled.  Beside her, Carey was already drawing her knives.

Magnus grabbed Arumdina by the back of her breastplate, trying to hold her back, but she was stronger than she looked.  "Now everybody, hold on now--!"

"I'm not going to allow even one _filthy, backstabbing kobold_ to hurt my friends!"

"If you harm even _one scale_ on Ozzie's hide, I swear--"

"I said _everybody quiet!"_ Magnus roared at top volume. 

Arumdina looked up at him, frowning.  "What the hell, Magnus?"

"Arumdina, _stop,"_ he said.  "Ozzie's a friend of ours, and the fact that she's a kobold doesn't matter.  Davenport trusted her, so I trust her."

Her frown deepened.  "Davenport would never trust a kobold!"

"He trusted Ozzie.  She's been helping us track Ruin so we can rescue him."

"Rescue him?!" she scoffed, shaking off Magnus's grip.  She pointed an accusing finger at Ozzie.  "She doesn't care about Davenport!  She must have tricked him, somehow!  She just wants to get her stinking god back--"

"Arumdina--"

"The same god who told the kobolds to make war on my people!  Do you know how many gnomes those monsters have killed?!"

Killian stepped forward.  "Oh, you do _not_ call her a monster--"

_"Stop!"_   Ozzie's voice seemed to pierce the sky.  She grabbed Killian's arm, which was nearly as thick around as the skinny kobold's waist.  "Stop fighting, everyone!  Please.  I don't want this fight!"

Everyone stopped to look at her, as if seeing her, really _seeing_ her, for the first time.  Even Arumdina seemed surprised.  Ozzie wilted under the attention, her red scales blanching.  "I don't wanna fight…" she repeated, in a low mumble.  "Please.  I'm sick of it."

Magnus took a step forward.  "Ozzie--"

"No, she's right."  Ozzie shook her head.  "I followed Davenport because I wanted to--"  She took a deep breath, let it out.  "Because Davenport's relic killed my brother.  I thought killing him would bring back my god."

Carey's jaw dropped open.  Arumdina took a threatening step forward, but Magnus held her back with a firm hand on her shoulder.  Only Killian's eyes were full of sympathy.

"But Davenport was a friend to me," she said.  "He…he _believed_ in me.  I've never had that before."  She looked at Arumdina.  "I wanted to be worthy of his trust.  But maybe I was wrong about that.  Maybe I am no good for anything but killing, and maybe things are too broken to ever be fixed."  She sighed, and looked down at the Bureau bracer on her arm.  She clicked a button near the seam, and it popped open.  "You've got Ruin's course down.  You don’t need me here any more, and I don't belong here.  This is a place for heroes."  She held out the bracer to Magnus.

He took a deep breath.  "As Interim Director of the Bureau of Benevolence," he said, in the most leader-y voice he could manage, "I refuse to accept your resignation."  He put a hand on her shoulder. 

Killian clapped her other shoulder.  "I wouldn't be here if Lucretia hadn't given me a chance," she said. 

Carey nodded.  "Listen, a lot of us don't exactly have…clean pasts.  But Killian's right.  Lucretia gave us a second chance, an opportunity to start over and to make the world better.  It sounds like Davenport did the same for you.  And that's good enough for me."

Ozzie looked up at Magnus, eyes wide.  "But I tried to--I was following him so I could--"

"I know," he said.  "I've known it from the beginning."

"You…you did?  Oh dear…"

Magnus grinned.  "But he trusted you.  He had his back to you.  Ozzie, do you understand what that means?  A good warrior is always very careful who he lets guard his back.  You were back-to-back buddies!  That's some powerful stuff right there."

"Can confirm," said Killian, wrapping one arm around Carey's shoulders.

"So."  He planted his fists firmly on his hips.  "You're one of us now, and you're staying, And Arumdina?" he added, turning to face the axe-gnome.  "If you're gonna stay too, you're going to have to accept that--"

But Arumdina was nowhere in sight.

 

#

 

"Whaddaya mean, he won't see anyone?" Merle demanded.

"Just that, sir," said the servant standing outside Lord Artemis's door.

"But I'm Merle Highchurch," he said.  " _Earl_ Merle Highchurch.  Friend of Lord Artemis?  Savior of Faerun?"

"I am aware, sir.  But His Lordship has made his wishes quite clear."

"Listen, kid," he said, "I had to spend a half-hour arguing with the guards at the gate before they even would let me into the city, I had to walk halfway through this town, practically swimming upstream the whole time, and then I had to argue with _another_ guard at _another_ gate outside this estate, just to get inside and dry off a bit!  And after all that, I can't even get the courtesy of one minute of his time?"

The servant didn't even bat an eyelash, the heartless jerk.  "I'm afraid not, sir.  I do apologize for the inconvenience.  If you wish, I could arrange to have a room set up for you, so you may relax and refresh yourself, and try again tomorrow."

"I don't have time fer--"

"Hey pops!" shouted Mookie.  "Check out this cool vase!"  He was picking up a vase as big as his own torso from a side table.

This finally provoked a reaction from the servant, whose eyes got big as saucers.  "Put that down!" he cried, running towards Mookie.  "It's an antique heirloom--it's priceless--!"

Mookie caught Merle's eye, and gave him a wink and the biggest shit-eating grin.  Then he was running down the hall at top Mookie speed, as if the vase were suddenly the most interesting toy in the world to him.

Merle's jaw dropped.  Huh.  His kids never ceased to amaze him.

Not that Merle had intended to bring Mookie to rain-drenched, gearing-up-for-war Neverwinter in the first place.  The BOB sphere had been halfway to Neverwinter when Mookie had popped up from underneath one of the seats with a big grin and a loud "Surprise!"  Nearly gave Merle a heart attack. 

Well, there wasn't much to do besides take him along.  The stormcloud over Neverwinter made it impossible for Avi to aim directly for the city, so he'd aimed for the nearest field that wasn't obscured by clouds.  Mookie screamed happily all the way down, and his enthusiasm hadn't been dampened at all by the long and muddy walk to Neverwinter and up to the estate. 

How he still had the energy to run off again, and make that servant really earn that no-doubt substantial paycheck, Merle didn't know.  But it gave him a chance to do what he came here to do.

He opened the door.

"Merle Highchurch!"  Artemis looked up from his maps and smiled.  "What a pleasant surprise!"

"Lord Artemis," he said.  "Nice to see you too!  Was wonderin' if ya had a minute fer ol' Merle?"  He glanced at the finely-dressed tiefling woman who stood by Artemis, one hand resting on the maps.  Her expression was unreadable.

Artemis shook his head.  "I'm afraid now's a bad time, Merle," he said.  "There is so much to do before we can march out."

"Eh…that's what I wanted ta talk to ya about."  Merle shut the door behind himself.  "Listen," he said, "this whole war thing--"

His Stone began to buzz in his pocket.  The glowing rune showed it was Magnus calling.  "Ooh, hold on, this may be an emergency…"

Artemis raised one eyebrow.  He was starting to look annoyed.

Merle lifted the Stone to his ear.  "Hello?"

"Merle--it's me, Magnus!"

"Magnus!  You, uh, all right, buddy?  How ya feelin'?"

"Pretty shitty, actually.  Look, sorry that I was acting weird earlier.  Apparently I was Charmed?  But look, have you met with Sterling yet?"

Merle glanced at the Lord of Neverwinter, who was looking at him strangely.  "Uh, yeah, I'm with him now--"

"Ya gotta be careful!  There's this tiefling lady with him, and I think she's the one who Charmed me?  She's some kinda weapons dealer, and I don't trust her--"

"Merle, is everything okay?" Artemis asked.  Beside him, the tiefling regared Merle coolly, like an insect. 

"Uh yeah, it's uh…"  He glanced between her and Artemis, then back at his Stone.  "I'm gonna have ta call ya back, okay?"  He ended the call.

"Well," said Artemis, "I hope everything is all in order--"

"I cast Zone of Truth!"

The declaration was met with stunned silence.  Merle cleared his throat.  "Who is this lady, really?" he demanded.

Artemis blinked.  "This is Lady Silverthorn," he said, in a strained voice.  "She's the official arms supplier for Neverwinter.  Merle, I could have told you that without any Zone of Truth!"

The lady nodded.  "What Lord Sterling says is true.  I am Lady Aeshia Silverthorn, and I am supplying Lord Sterling with all the arms and armaments his city needs to be victorious in battle."  She smiled.

Merle frowned.  "Did you Charm my buddy?"

"Of course not," she said easily.  "Unless he was taken by my sparkling wit."

Artemis was frowning, too.  "Merle, what was the point of that?  I trust Lady Silverthorn completely.  She has been nothing but helpful to our efforts here."

He cleared his throat, trying to think fast.  He wished he had Taako's glibness.  "I, uh…I'm just lookin' out for ya, Artemis," he said.  "In dangerous times like these, you can never be too sure."

Artemis regarded him, his once-open expression gone stony.  "Well.  I thank you for your concern," he said stiffly, "but I wish you wouldn't express it by insulting my advisors."

"Could I, uh…talk to you privately for a minute?  Just…"  He tilted his head at the office doors, hoping that Artemis would send her out of the room for a minute.  But then he remembered Mookie, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be waiting outside the office when his son came back.  "Ya know what, could we just…talk out in the hall, just the two of us?"

Artemis sighed, dragging his fingertips down his face.  "Merle, you--"  He seemed to be thinking about something.  "All right," he said.  "Fine.  One minute of my time, Merle, and then I need to get back to ensuring the safety of my city."  He gave the tiefling a brief nod, and followed Merle out into the hallway.  "What is this about?" he asked, folding his arms.

"Ya gotta call off the war," he said quickly.  "Whatever is happening between you and Goldcliff, whatever it is, it can't be more important than tryin' ta stop the end of the world!"

"And do you actually have a plan to thwart that yet?"

"Well…uh, no, not yet.  Not as such…"

Artemis let out another short, sharp sigh.  "Then I'm afraid that until you have a better idea, I have to take care of my city.  And that means stopping Goldcliff's forces, as I've already explained to Magnus."

"By sendin' yer people out to war, when the whole planet's dyin'?  War ain't friendly ta the landscape, Artemis.  There's precious little that's hangin' on, and yer gonna trample it all underfoot!"

"Believe me," said Artemis, turning away, "I've already weighed the costs and benefits of this very carefully, Merle.  But unless the Bureau has a specific plan for where my efforts should be focused instead, I cannot waste time trying to tread softly when there are enemies approaching the gates.  I made a good-faith effort to reach out to Mayor Apollo, and my offer was rejected.  And here we are."  He opened the office door again.  "That is all I have to say about the matter, Merle.  Good day."

Merle's thoughts scrambled over each other, trying to think of what might convince Artemis, what might even hold him for a minute more.  "Look," he said, "so the Bureau doesn't have a plan.  But we do know who's behind all this, and if ya go to war, you'll be playin' right inta his--" 

The door shut in his face.

"Aw, shit," he said. 

He looked around the silent, red-carpeted hallway.  The servant still hadn't returned, and neither had Mookie.

 

#

 

Mookie crept through the carefully-sculpted gardens of Lord Artemis Sterling's estate.  There was no sign of that grumpy servant following him anymore.  He set the vase down next to a bush, shrugged, and kept walking. 

The constant rain had turned the grounds into a soggy course of muddy pathways and overgrown puddles, which made it, in his opinion, perfect.  Time to go hunting for frogs!

He figured this meant _acting_ like a frog, in the hopes of showing the frogs he was a friend.  His pops always talked about meeting people where they were, and that probably extended to animals, too.      

He heard peeping from under a droopy bush.  "Here, froggy froggy!" he called in a low, croaking voice.  He crouched down and did an odd sort of crab-walk through a puddle, towards the bush.  "My name's Mookie.  You wanna come with me and be my friend?"

He figured this was how it was done.  He figured that if he tried to befriend enough frogs, one of them would be the right one, and would stay.

That was the plan.  Ever since he'd met that druid in Treeheart a few weeks ago.  Mookie had slipped away while his pops talked to the head cleric, and Mavis was distracted, and he'd found himself climbing a branch into an upper room.  There he'd found a half-elf sitting on the grassy chamber floor, wearing robes nearly as dirty as Mookie was.  A wolf sat beside them, its long gray-white muzzle in their lap. 

Mookie had frozen in place.  The wolf had opened one eye and looked straight at him.

"It's all right," said the half-elf, setting one callused hand on the wolf's head.  "He won't hurt you."

"Is he your pet?" Mookie asked.  He didn't think that was _allowed_.

The half-elf had chuckled.  "No, he's my animal companion," they said.  "It's a very different thing."

"Really?"  Mookie had taken a few more cautious steps into the room.  "What's the difference?"

The half-elf had smiled.  "It's part of the druid's connection to nature," they said.  "We form a special connection with an animal, not of master and servant, but as equals.  Friends who help each other, look after one another through thick and thin.  A bond that no power can break."

Mookie grinned.  He knew about bonds!  The Story told him all about them.  One day he wanted to have his own super team of super special friends, just like his pops had.  "Can I get an animal buddy too?"

The half-elf laughed, and the wolf grumbled, which sounded like its own sort of wolfy laugh.  "If you take this path," they said, "of course!  I see you are already well in touch with nature." 

"I like frogs!  Can I have a frog?"

They shrugged.  "Perhaps.  A companion is a very special, personal thing.  Not just any animal will do.  It has to be the _right_ one." 

"How will I know it's the right one?"

"You will know," said the druid.  "Fate will join your paths."

Mookie nodded, grinning.  He just had to find a lot of frogs, then.  One of them had to be the right one for him!

"Mookie?  Are you up here?" Mavis called from the hallway.

The half-elf nodded.  Mookie waved good-bye to the druid and to his wolf friend, and went to find his sister. 

Mookie still had no idea why his pops had been busy having serious talks with the head cleric when there had been a druid with a wolf-buddy upstairs!  He wondered where the druid was now, and if they were okay, what with the world ending.

Not that the world was gonna end.  Not if Mookie and his pops could help it.  But if he was gonna help, he needed to be a proper hero.  And for that, he needed an animal buddy who would help him.

"There you are!"  He sprang forward into the bush, hands coming down on the frog.  But it was a bit too quick for him, and hopped out from his grip, splashing quickly away through the mud.

"Come back!" said Mookie, giving chase.  It hopped down the muddy path and between some bushes just past a little wrought-iron archway.  At the top of the arch was the word 'Menagerie', which Mookie didn't recognize, but it sounded like one of those fancy words that Uncle Taako used for fancy foods.  He didn't smell any food around here.  He was pretty far away from the house, and besides, everything smelled like rain and mud.

Past the archway, Mookie saw a bunch of different cages, some bigger and smaller, some open to the sky and others roofed.  One cage held a tree and a big fancy bird with shimmering feathers, who was huddled in one corner and looking grumpy.  A really big fenced-in paddock held a mom unicorn and her baby, sheltering beneath a lean-to.  Most of their paddock was churned to mud, and their legs were streaked with it.

The frog croaked again.  Mookie followed it past the unicorn paddock, past a cage with a weird eight-legged badger thing with gold-colored fur, and another cage full of monkeys, before it finally got ahead of him and he lost the trail.

Great.  Now what?  He paused beneath a dripping tree, watched by a curious peacock who wasn't even in a cage.  Its long tail was ragged with rainwater.

His belly rumbled.  He was just about to turn around and head back to the house (maybe he could raid the kitchen; a house this fancy had to have fancy foods!), when a strange cry distracted him.  It reminded him of the owls he sometimes heard in the woods.  He followed it down a side path.  The peacock decided to stay behind, under the tree's semi-shelter.

The path wound through hedges that kept it out of sight of most of the other cages and paddocks.  The high-pitched hooting cry came and went, but its source was so well-hidden that when he finally turned the corner and saw the cage, he stopped in surprise.

A baby owl-bear lay in a large cage that had been built around an artificial cave.  Like the unicorn's paddock, its modest yard was churned to mud and puddles.  It huddled miserably just inside the cave.

It looked up and saw Mookie.  It lifted its head, feathery ears flicking up, owl-eyes wide and alert and desperate.

Mookie met its gaze.  And he _knew_.

"Hey there, buddy," he said, as softly and gently as he could, because that's how you were supposed to talk to animals who were hurt and scared and alone.  "Wanna be my friend?"

The baby owl-bear looked straight at him, as if it understood every word he'd said.  And it nodded.


	37. Black Violin, White Baton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz makes several fateful decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning in this chapter for violence & past character death.

The violin was pristine, its glossy black surface as perfectly preserved as if Kravitz had set it down yesterday.  Inside the box were a few other personal effects that Kravitz had retained when he'd first taken up his scythe:  a pair of gold cufflinks, a slim white baton, a folded sheaf of composition paper with some half-composed piece.  These were the mementos he'd kept from his mortal life.  But somewhere along the way, they'd given way to a Reaper's duty and he'd forgotten all about them.  He didn't recall how the composition was supposed to go, and he couldn't even remember the significance of the cufflinks.  Had they been a gift?  Had he worn them at a particularly memorable concert?

The baton, though….He picked it up, and the memory washed through him.  He wondered how he'd ever set it aside.  Was there a day when he'd just decided hanging onto it was pointless, since there was no orchestra in the Astral Plane for him to conduct?  Or had it been a slower, more subtle process of shuffling it to the back of his mind so he could focus on his work for the Queen?

He set it down and picked up the violin.  The strings were still good; he took a moment to tune the instrument, then set it on his shoulder.  The bow was likewise in perfect condition, as if they'd been pulled from the normal cycle of entropy and decay the moment they'd arrived in this plane.  Which, he supposed, was likely.

He ran the bow over the strings.  The violin sang a long, resounding note in the little Archives room.  It seemed too loud for the space he was in, as if this music could not and should not be contained in a half-forgotten storage closet.

He sighed, and set down the violin.  "All right," he said.  "All right."

It was a short flight from the Archives to the shore of the Astral Sea.  The waters were growing restless again.  He turned to face the distant Burnsides island, lifted the violin to his shoulder, closed his eyes, and began to play.

 

#

 

"Is it true?" asked Kravitz, from the dressing room doorway.  "You're retiring?"

Mr. Aloysius Nim sniffed.  "Is word getting around that quickly?  You'd think the string section would have better things to do than gossip."

"Well, I think it's an important matter.  You're one of the greatest conductors the Red Rock Orchestra has ever had!  You're practically an institution."

Mr. Nim rolled his eyes as he adjusted his cravat.  "It figures.  The moment I even hint at retirement, the vultures start circling."

Kravitz raised an eyebrow.  "I thought you liked vultures.  You wear a vulture skull brooch to every concert."

"It's a raven skull, thank you very much."    

"Either way, that's not what this is."  Kravitz stepped inside and partly closed the door, so his voice wouldn't travel.  "I just think some of us would like to know who we'll be playing for, were you to step down.  Because if it's Gerhardt, I'll probably take my violin elsewhere, and I don't think I'm alone in that."  Most of the orchestra wouldn't risk being so frank with their boss, but Kravitz had known Mr. Nim since childhood:  his mother had been a floutist in the orchestra before him, and the two had been close.  Mr. Nim was like a crotchety old uncle to him.  Besides, Gerhardt was an arrogant, self-absorbed SOB, and Kravitz couldn't stand the idea of the orchestra he loved falling into his hands.

Mr. Nim turned to face him.  "And who else would you suggest?  Yourself, perhaps?"

Kravitz cleared his throat.  "I couldn't," he said, shaking his head.  Sure, he'd imagined himself up on that stand occasionally.  Well--more than occasionally.  What musician didn't dream of being the conductor?  But he'd always just as quickly dismissed the idea.  Mr. Nim loomed so great in his life; conducting the famed Red Rock Orchestra was impossible for Kravitz, because that would mean Mr. Nim was gone, and he didn't want to think about that.

Mr. Nim raised an eyebrow.  And Kravitz thought again of Gerhardt taking over, and felt queasy.  "I mean…could I?  Do you think I have what it takes?"

"Frankly, no," said Mr. Nim, picking up the skull brooch and pinning it to his cravat.  "There's potential there, but you still have much to learn."

Kravitz winced.  He knew he was skilled—he wouldn't be in this orchestra if he wasn't—but he'd never been able to achieve his mother's level of fame.  Nim kept him in third chair violin, and he never did figure out what it was he was missing that kept him from advancing.  He sighed.

"Five minutes!" came the voice of the stage manager. 

Mr. Nim closed his eyes and bowed his head towards the shrine in the corner of his dressing room.  It was a modest shrine:  a small end table topped with a glass vase containing a single black feather.  A symbol of the death goddess he worshipped.  Kravitz waited quietly, giving his old mentor a moment to complete his prayer.  Mr. Nim lightly touched the raven skull brooch and straightened with a sigh.

"It seems rather morbid," Kravitz remarked.  "Why pray for death?  You'd think that as musicians, we ought to be focused on life."

"You'd think that," said Mr. Nim, his voice carrying a sharp edge to it.  "You young people think you're all immortal, that you have all the time in the world!  So you don't want to think about death."  He turned to Kravitz, straightening his waistcoat.  "But the Raven Queen won't take anyone sooner or later than she is meant to, no matter what their ambitions.  So I find a good _memento mori_ bracing.  It reminds me that my time is limited, and I must do my best with it while I still have it."  He tapped his wrinkled finger on the little skull.  "When I pray, I only ask that she preserve me for as long as she sees fit.  That is all."

"Well."  Kravitz shrugged the talk of death off his shoulders.  "For what it's worth, I hope she keeps preserving you."

Mr. Nim sniffed, heading to the door.  "Tomorrow morning.  Nine o'clock sharp.  In the practice studio."

"Pardon?"  Today was their spring concert.  The orchestra was supposed to get a two-week break after tonight.

"Do you want to see if you have what it takes?"  Mr. Nim gave him a sharp look over one bony shoulder.  "Tomorrow, Kravitz.  Nine o'clock sharp."

 

#

           

Three months later, Kravitz still didn't know if he had what it took to conduct.  What "it took" to satisfy Mr. Nim was something Mr. Nim never enumerated.  Kravitz knew what to do in theory; he'd even conducted a couple of pieces at rehearsal, which he thought had gone well.  But Mr. Nim would always sigh and say, "Well, you still have a ways to go."

The Midsummer concert, the biggest concert of the year, was to be Mr. Nim's final hurrah.  Everyone knew by now that he was stepping down, so the open-air amphitheater was packed to overflowing.  But he still had not named his successor.

Twenty minutes before the curtains were supposed to go up, a runner came with the announcement of his death.

Natural causes, it would be determined later.  The old man died quietly in his bed.  But in those last few moments before showtime, there was grief and panic and distress written on the faces of everyone in the orchestra.

"He'd want us to go on," said Jackie, the first-chair violinist.  "We should play out the concert, in his honor.  Make it a tribute to him."

"Should we go on without a conductor?" asked Harold, a perpetually nervous cellist.  "I'm not sure that's wise, not without practice."

He had a point.  The same acoustics that made the Red Rock Amphitheater so famous also made it tricky for the musicians to stay in synch with each other.  A conductor was critical.

Kravitz saw Gerhardt straightening in his chair, taking a deep breath to speak—

"I'll do it," said Kravitz.  The words were out of his mouth before he realized it.  "I'll conduct."

The whole orchestra looked at him.

Gerhardt sniffed.  "I don't think—"

But Jackie was already on her feet.  She climbed onto the conductor's stand and Kravitz's first thought was relief, that she would lead and he could maybe get a shot at first chair now, and that would be enough.

But she picked up Mr. Nim's baton, stepped down off the riser, and handed the baton to Kravitz.

"He believed in you," she said.

Kravitz stared at the baton.  He looked around at the rest of the orchestra.  A few nodded quietly.

He took the baton.

The curtain rose.        

The Red Rock Amphitheater was famous across Faerun because a curious natural rock formation caught sound and amplified it to an almost unnatural degree.  An audience member sitting a quarter of a mile away could hear every note, every sound coming off the stage, as clear as crystal.  So the crowd extended that far and farther:  not just the nobility and the music enthusiasts, but laborers and peasant farmers and everyone who lived in or near Red Rock seemed to be there, sitting on folding chairs or spread out on picnic blankets on all the ledges carved into the walls of the rocky canyon. 

He wanted to honor Mr. Nim with music.  He wanted to still the beating in his heart and just get through the pieces without messing up so badly that the audience would notice.  He tapped out the rhythm steadily, cued the woodwinds at the right time, remembered to cut off the cellists at that tricky staggered conclusion.  He kept every section of the orchestra in his head at once, each their own separate through-line with their own cue and cut-off, all held together by the steady rhythm of Mr. Nim's baton. 

But there was one moment, about halfway through the triumphant Solignaire piece that was their finale, when all the orchestra's many voices came together in Kravitz's head, and he was hearing not a dozen disparate sections but one multilayered voice.  And that voice moved through his feet and up his spine and out through his fingers, like he was a wizard channeling something greater than he could conceive.  For one brief, fleeting moment, _he was music._

And then the piece dropped into a sudden decrescendo, into a quieter andante section led by the flutes, and the moment passed.  Kravitz clung tightly to that feeling, hoping to bring it back at the big, broad chord progression that finished the piece.  But though he brought down his baton at the right time, and the orchestra blasted out the chords on cue, it didn't come together in his head as he'd hoped.  The bass cellists drowned out the violins, and one of the oboes came in a hair too early.  And Kravitz wished he could do that final chord again, beat it out until he got it right, until he became music again.  He was on the verge of something great, and it was _right there._

But the concert was over, and the curtain came down.

 

#

 

After Mr. Nim was buried, Kravitz went to a temple of the Raven Queen, and purchased a small raven-skull pin that had been blessed by one of her priests.  He pinned it to his lapel, and prayed that the Queen would preserve him for as long as she saw fit.  He hoped the _memento mori_ would remind him that his time was limited and that he shouldn't squander it.  He wanted to be the official conductor of the Red Rock Orchestra.  He wanted to do whatever it took to find that moment again:  that moment of perfect harmony, when all the world seemed to resound to the same song.

"Raven Queen preserve me," he prayed every morning when sitting down to practice.  "For as long as you see fit."

She did preserve him.  For three weeks.

He wished, for a long time afterward, that his attackers in that dark alley had just killed him outright.  But instead they knocked him out and dragged him to their lair, to a ritual circle that filled most of a damp basement, and he woke only to watch his blood pool out onto the rough stone floor. 

(He would find out later that the ritual required the blood of a still-beating heart.)

He wished, for a long time afterward, that he had been brave.  That he had kept his head on his shoulders and fought back, somehow.  But terror had left him frozen in place, as helpless as a week-old kitten.  And even if he had fought--well, it would have been futile.  There were ten of them in the room with him, and he could not see an exit in the darkness.  His doom was sealed the moment they'd jumped him in the alleyway.  He died afraid.

His ghost, however, was _furious_.  He rose from his body in the center of the circle, just as the floor gave way to a dark, swirling pit.  Something heavy and made of fire was climbing slowly up from the pit. He wasn't sure if he was angry at being killed just as he was on the cusp of finding his dream in his hands, or if the ritual had infused him with such rage.  But in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to try to tear through the demon with his bare hands, even though he knew he would lose.

(He would find out later that it was both.  This particular demon preferred his prey to put up a fight.  It kept things interesting.)

The demon bared teeth like shards of iron and raised a sharp-clawed paw.  Kravitz screamed and launched himself at the creature--

A stranger in a black cloak leapt between them, a shining scythe slicing through the creature's foreleg.  The demon screamed and fell back.  And then the room became a storm of panic and confusion.  The ritual circle shattered, its glowing boundaries disintegrating.  The demon lost its grip and fell back into the pit, and Kravitz might have fallen with it if the scythe hadn't scooped him up in a sweep of silver and black.

It was quiet, for a long time after that.  He didn't know where he was, only that he was…held, somehow.  And still furious.  Someone tried to drop him into a glowing sea but he refused, kicking and screaming.  He didn't want to rest.  He wanted to fight, he wanted to make music, to make _noise,_ he refused to go quietly into that good night. 

He ended up in a cell.  He paced back and forth like a caged lion, but he was unable to free himself.  People in black feathered capes came to speak to him, but nothing they said could penetrate the anger that suffused his soul.  His world was fury and darkness and the four walls that hemmed him in.

And then, someone began to play a cello.

He turned to the visitor, and for the first time focused on a face.  Mr. Nim sat outside the cell.  His eyes were closed as he drew a mournful song from a cello of deep red cherrywood.  His suit was so black it seemed cut from the midnight sky.

Kravitz found himself calming down.  He didn't realize he was sitting perfectly still until the song came to a close, and Mr. Nim opened his eyes.

"Well," said Mr. Nim.  "Feeling better?"

Kravitz touched his spectral fingertips to his non-existent cheeks.  "I'm dead," he said, numbly.

"Astute as always."

He tried to sigh, but he had no lungs.  He found himself repeating the gesture of sighing, but with no wind to back it up.  "I…Mr. Nim, I'm so sorry."

Mr. Nim lifted one white eyebrow.  "For what?"

"I…"  He winced.  "You were right.  About squandering my time.  The moment I figured out what I really wanted to do, the moment I finally tried to step up, I…I lost it all.  And now I've got nothing to show for my life."

"That's arguable," said Mr. Nim.  He gave Kravitz an appraising look.  "But…maybe you'd be interested in having something to show for your death?"

The question at the end of the phrase pulled Kravitz from his misery, to really look at Mr. Nim.  The old man wasn't _smiling_ , per se--Kravitz had never seen him smile--but there was something open in his expression.  A silent invitation.

Kravitz found himself drifting closer.  "What exactly did you have in mind?"

 

#

 

The violin sang over the Astral Sea.  After centuries without practice, Kravitz's hand was unsteady, and it took all his concentration just to remember which note came next.  Below him, the water churned, the restless souls stirring back and forth.  Either they couldn't hear him over the roar of the dark waters, or they weren't impressed by his playing.

He pressed his chin down into the chin rest and closed his eyes, trying to hear the music, trying to pull the melody from that part of him that used to know this so well. 

He didn't hear Legion until it was too late.  The sound of their approach was just one roar in a larger storm of noise.  He turned, catching a glimmer of quicksilver in the corner of his eye, only to see one giant skeletal hand coming down straight at him.

A giant hammer slammed into the hand with a resounding crunch.  Legion fell back, their dark eyesockets widening.  Kravitz's jaw dropped.

"You need to pay better attention," said Julia Burnsides, her spectral form hovering over the water, one big sledgehammer slung over one shoulder.  She grinned.  "Lucky for you, I'm here."


	38. New Recruits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lup directs traffic. Angus makes the cut. Davenport calls collect.

So.  This was Lup's life now.

She hovered in the air above a muddy track that had been washed away by a torrential downpour.  The storm that had done it was moving quickly towards the horizon, pouring out its water intermittently, like an overripe grapefruit being squeezed by some unseen hand.  It wasn't the only weird thing going on in the skies right now, but her attention was on the caravan below her.

About a dozen people were struggling to dislodge their wagons from the mud and get back on the road.  One wagon in particular, a large and heavy-wheeled supply wagon, was giving them a bit too much trouble.  They heaved at it, but its wheels remained deep in the mud.

This was where Whisper had sent her.  She could feel him now, nudging her to help them.

"Why?" she asked him.  "This seems…way outside your jurisdiction."

No explanation, only another nudge.

Damn.  Maybe he was sending her on a fairly benign mission, as a practice run?  Just to see if she'd be willing to hold up her end of the bargain?  Still, these people clearly needed help, and she wasn't gonna die on this hill just to leave them in the lurch.

She flew down to them.  "Hold up," she said, "I got this!"  She grabbed the stuck wagon with magic, and began to lift it out of the mud.

The travelers fell away, and began pointing upward at her, their mouths open and their eyes wide.  "Yeah, yeah, I'm pretty amazing," she said, setting the wagon down firmly on a more stable part of the track.  But the boast rang hollow in her head.  She was working for the bad guy.  That was the opposite of amazing.

One of the travelers dropped to her knees and began to pray.  A few others followed suit, seemingly not caring that they were kneeling in mud.  To be fair, they were all pretty muddy and damp already. 

"Thank you, Lup the Resplendent!" said one man.  He was older, with a shock of white hair, but the rain pressing his white shirt against his arms showed some pretty impressive guns.

"Oh sure," she said, "you're welcome…you." 

"Buiron Steelheart," he said, giving her a quick bow.  "I will not soon forget your kindness, my lady."

"Hey-oh!" shouted another man, who sat in the lead cart, which was being pulled forward by two determined oxen.  "We're moving out!"

Buiron gave Lup one more quick nod, and hurried to climb aboard one of the carts.  Those who were kneeling scrambled up to their feet and followed.

Lup watched them go, hoping that they'd make it to safety.  Wondering if there was any "safe" place left in this world.  Then she cut a hole in the air with her fiery sword, and returned to Whisper.

 

#

 

"Well?"  Barry pulled the binoculars from his face.  "That seemed…weird."

Taako said nothing.  He stared down at the rescued caravan in the distance, chewing his lower lip.

"Why would Whisper send Lup to, uh, rescue a stuck caravan?" he continued, more musing aloud than expecting Taako to have an answer.

He'd gotten the signal on his ring that Lup was on the move, and they'd followed, half-expecting to have to counter whatever Whisper would ask her to do.  He wasn't sure what that would be.  He'd worried that Whisper would send her to start a battle, or devise some horrific new weapon, or otherwise exacerbate the unstable conditions spreading everywhere.  But this was…a mundane sort of good deed.  One that any of his family might have done, had they come across this flagging caravan.

"Where is she now?" asked Taako suddenly.

Barry stared at the bright ruby set into his ring.  He could feel the pull towards Lup, like a string tied between their hearts.  "Somewhere in the celestial planes," he said.  "Not the Astral Plane.  Maybe Whisper's realm?"  He could pull out his scythe and cut a portal directly to her location, but he didn't want to risk confronting Whisper in his own house.  Assuming the god would even let him in.

Taako swore.  He stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, and looked at the storm making its way towards them, heavy and gray, ready to drop its payload on their heads.

"It's like he's fuckin' taunting us," said Taako.  "We know exactly where she is, but we can't get to her."  He tossed his head, as if shrugging the whole thing off his shoulders.  "Let's go."

Barry sighed, and cut a portal back to Taako's house. 

 

#

 

Angus watched from a stand of bushes as a dozen people heaved at the stuck caravan.  There were all the indoctrinated members of the Rockport city council, along with a handful of other cultists from, Angus assumed, the Rockport branch of Whisper's sprawling cult.  He'd caught up to their trail, but he had no idea where they were going with their amassed stock of God-Cleavers.

God-Cleavers.  He winced at the misleading name.  He doubted the swords could actually harm Whisper; they were infused with his power, blessed in his name.  They were less "weapons that could cleave a god" so much as a weapon that a god could use to cleave something else.  Anything else.

There was literally nothing in this planar system that Whisper or his followers could not destroy.

He considered the likelihood that one of the swords could be used to damage Ruin.  Perhaps worth a shot, but unlikely.  It would be like asking Whisper to break his own stuff. 

One of the cultists shouted, gesturing at the half-elf sitting in the driver's seat of another wagon.  The driver climbed down to help the others.

Perfect.

Angus slipped out of the bushes, crept across the road, and climbed into the now-unoccupied wagon.  A flick of his wand caused his footprints to disappear from the muddy track behind him.  A dark hooded jacket he'd looted from an empty house in Rockport gave him all the stealth buffs he needed.

The sheathed God-Cleavers were stacked neatly in one corner, wrapped in oilcloth to keep the damp off.  Carefully, he drew one out of the bundle, and pulled it from its sheath.

It fit so easily into his hand.  He could feel it in his bones, like he was _made_ to wield it. 

Even with the door closed, he was still an emissary of Whisper.  He was still connected by a tether he couldn't see.

The voices outside began shouting.  He lowered himself closer to the floor of the wagon, trying to minimize his profile in case anyone looked inside.  But the cultists were gathering away from the wagon.  He heard chanted prayers and exhortations. 

He heard Buiron's voice:  "Lup the Resplendent."

Angus froze.

What was Lup doing here?  Should he break cover and ask for help?

No--no, he couldn't do that.  As long as he belonged to Whisper, it wasn't safe to be around his family. 

He had to do this on his own. 

He hid the sheathed sword in his long jacket, and slipped out the back of the wagon while everyone was distracted by Lup.  A quick dash across the road at a low crouch, and he was back in the bushes.  He kept going deeper into the woods beyond, until he was well-hidden from sight. 

He paused to catch his breath, leaning against the tree.  The sword was a heavy weight at his hip.  He drew it free.

It was a sword to sever the bonds of this world, Buiron had said.

He closed his eyes, and felt the tether holding him to Whisper.  He pictured it in his mind's eye, a white bond-string connecting the door in his heart to whatever realm Whisper called home.  Making sure that the door was sealed as tight as he could make it--so his god couldn't see what he was thinking--he lifted the sword.  And he brought it down again, right through the string.

The bond snapped. 

It felt like dying.  He found himself sliding to the muddy ground, his body gone limp, his fingers numb, his vision darkening.  His heart felt like it had seized in his chest.  Was he having a heart attack?

Would anyone find his body, if he died here?

He lay in the mud for a long time, just breathing.  Overhead, raindrops began to beat a soft rhythm against the few stubborn leaves still clinging to branches overhead.

And then the pain passed, and his head cleared.  He saw a long, shining piece of metal laying not far from his hand.  It was a very dangerous weapon.  He needed to get it to his family, to tell them about--

He sat up with a jerk.  Closing his eyes, he felt for Whisper's presence.  But there was no subtle pressure on his shoulders, no malevolent presence in the back of his head.

And the door in his heart was gone.

 

#

 

"Well," said Mr. Nim.  "A very unusual choice."

Kravitz sighed.  "I'm aware.  But we're stretched thin as it is, and I'm not going to turn down an offer of help."

"Do either of us even have the authority to do this?  It is the Raven Queen who decides who serves her."

Julia Burnsides sat perched on the edge of Kravitz's desk, taking in the Reaper's office.  She cleared her throat.  "From what I understand," she said, "she's authorized her Reapers to do what they need to, in order to keep everything here controlled and orderly.  Which includes keeping the Astral Sea calm and the souls of the dead contained.  Correct?"

Kravitz nodded.

"Well, then!  If you need extra hands to ensure that job gets done, seems to me you have all the justification you need."

Kravitz looked out at the churning sea, and at Mr. Nim.  "She, uh, has a very good point."

He was more than half expecting the old man to protest, but he only gave a terse nod.  "A temporary designee, then," he said.  He withdrew a slim record book from an inner pocket of his black suit jacket.  He snapped his fingers, and a raven feather quill appeared between his fingers.  "Normally we do this with proper ceremony, but desperate times, et cetera.  Kravitz, will you do the honors?  I will act as witness."

Kravitz nodded.  Julia slid off the desk and stood at attention, the easy smile on her face replaced with solemn determination.  Clearly, she knew what it meant to dedicate herself to a cause.

"Julia Burnsides," he said, in his best Cockney accent, "do you swear to serve with honor in the name of the Raven Queen, to protect the border between life and death, to ensure the proper rest of all mortal souls, and to bring to justice those who would defy the natural order?"

Julia struck the floor with the butt of her long sledgehammer.  The sound of strong wood against stone rang through the room.  "I do," she said.

He smiled.  "Then, Julia Burnsides, in the name of the Raven Queen, I declare you an official Reaper.  Welcome aboard."

Mr. Nim made a note in his record book.  "Class B-Temporary.  Of course, she'll have to get robes and scythe from the supply room, as the Raven Queen is not here to grant Ms. Burnsides her own set of vestments."

"I think her hammer will be most suited to the sort of work she'll be doing," said Kravitz.

"Damn straight!" said Julia, grinning.  "Where do I get started?"

 

#

 

"All right," said Davenport, looking over the half-completed setup with an appraising eye.  "Think it'll work?"

"I have no idea," said Garl cheerfully.

"It couldn't hurt to try," said Istus.

"I have humored you thus far, Mirthless One," said the Raven Queen, "because I am curious.  However, if this…experiment of yours results in any damage to my book, I _will_ hold you accountable."

He shrugged.  "You know?  That's fair."  He picked up another long string of yarn and completed looping it around the steel rod that acted as its anchor in this corner of the room.

Pan poked at one of the steel rods which had been set up around the room.  It wobbled a little, sending vibrations down the multicolored yarn that was looped into a giant cat's cradle-style magic circle.  "So, uh, what is this supposed to do again?"

"Well, in theory," said Davenport, "it's supposed to amplify the latent bond energy in the Raven Queen's book, amplified and directed by Istus's yarn, in order to get a message out through the bubble to the Plane of Thought.  And from there, we'll need to find a way to redirect the line of communication back to the Prime--"

"Groovy," said Pan.  "And then, poker night?"

"Listen, if this works," said Garl, "I think we'll all have earned a good bout of poker!"

Pan grinned.

"Davenport," said Istus, "perhaps we should ask if _you_ think it will work?"

He frowned.  "Honestly, I'm not sure.  I've never tried working bonds in this way.  Wait," and he looked up at her, "is there anybody in town whose, uh, portfolio is communication, or connection?"

"Ah!"  Garl's eyes lit up.  "I know just the person!"  And he dashed up the stairs.

Davenport worked while he waited, directing Istus to add another square of yarn outside the main circle, to stabilize the setup.  But Garl wasn't gone long; less than five minutes later, he was pounding down the stairs with a big grin on his face.

"Ta-da!" he sang, gesturing to the top of the basement stairs.  Cyrrollalee followed, looking mildly bemused.

"Ah," said the Raven Queen.  "Of course."

"Hello," said Cyrrollalee.  "Garl said you needed my assistance?"

Davenport scratched the back of his head.  He certainly had no desire to turn her away, but he also had no idea if this was in the wheelhouse of the Goddess of Hospitality.  "Well, I--I mean, I'm not sure--"

"Oh come on," said Garl.  "You asked for someone who's an expert in communication and connection.  Friendship is Cyrrollalee's whole thing!  And what is friendship but communication and connection?"

"What are you trying to do, dear one?" she asked.  And her voice was so sincere, so helpful, that Davenport found himself explaining it all to her, in even more detail than he had explained to Pan.  She listened thoughtfully, occasionally nodding.

When he was done, she said, "All right.  Take me around the setup, and explain all the components you're using."

So he walked her around the outside of the magic circle, which was formed from strings of Istus's yarn stash and held in place by brackets, pipes, rods, and whatever they could loop yarn around.  Carefully stepping over the strands, he showed her the smooth emerald lens at the center of the circle, crafted by Garl.  It was set to rest on top of the Raven Queen's book, which was open to the most recently updated page.  Again, Cyrrollalee gave him her full attention.

When he was done, she led him over to a corner of the basement and asked, very quietly, "And what have you asked Pan to contribute?"

"Um."  He glanced over at the satyr, who was currently lounging on the basement couch and plucking a taut strand of yarn to make it vibrate.  "No, um, nothing really," he admitted.  Davenport had been working on this setup with Garl, Istus, and the Raven Queen for a good hour before Pan had showed up to remind them that it was poker night.  But setting this up was more important than a few card games, and poker night would have to wait, as Davenport had told him very firmly.  So the god of nature had been lounging around the basement, sometimes on the couch, sometimes perched on the stairs, watching the others work with a mopey expression on his face.

A small wrinkle appeared between Cyrrollalee's eyebrows.  "You should bring him in," she said. 

"I, uh, I'm not sure what he can…"  He trailed off as she gave him a little frown.

"A good friend finds ways to bring everybody in," she said, "not come up with excuses to exclude."  She tilted her head towards the circle.  "Your array is guided by your connection to your friends beyond the mountains.  But it's powered by the friends you have here." 

He…hadn't really thought of it that way.  But she had a point.  This wasn't so different from his time on the Starblaster.  Strengthen the bonds, get everyone working together, so the thing that ran on bonds would function more efficiently.  Finding ways to keep everyone contributing had been Leadership 101 for him.  But it had been so long since he'd had to wrangle a new team that he'd forgotten that crucial component.

"All right," he said.  "All right."  He cleared his throat.  "Pan?  Could you help us out a moment?"

Pan perked up, a smile instantly spreading on his face.  "Sure, man!  Whaddaya need?"

"Well, uh…"  He looked around the room.  "I suspect we're going to be working on this for a while longer.  I don't suppose you'd be willing to, uh, provide some refreshments?"

"Oh heck yeah, man!  I brought some good hooch for the poker, I can bring it down!  And see what I can't rustle up from the kitchen…"  He was already bounding up the stairs.

Cyrrollalee smiled.

Not long after, everyone had goblets of wine, and a veggie platter with hummus was set up on a side table, along with a platter of mini-sandwiches.  Istus tied the final strand of yarn into place, and Davenport gave one more pass on the whole setup.

"All right," he said.  "I, uh, think we've got it.  Now, we should try channeling some power into this thing, and see if it works."

Pan looked at the circle.  "Like, cast a specific spell, or…?" 

He looked around the room at the assembled gods who only had the barest glimmering awareness of their own power.  And then his eyes landed on the deflected scorch mark, from the blast that had almost--but not quite--harmed him.  "Why don't you all give this circle your blessing?"

The Raven Queen shrugged, took out a black quill, and signed her name into her book.  Istus tapped one taut yarn, sending vibrations through the whole circle.  Cyrrollalee blew a kiss, and Pan spilled a little wine on the floor.  Garl picked up the emerald lens, and brought it close to his face.

"Why did the emerald date the quartz?" he asked the lens.  He waited a beat, then said, "Because it was pretty gneiss!  Ha!"

The emerald shimmered, just a little.  He set it down on top of the book.

Energy began to thrum through the circle.  Davenport could feel it in the back of his teeth.  He stepped into the center of the circle, hoping the gathered energy would power the lens enough to make a connection.  Hoping that his theory was correct, and that the bubble was not blocking the Plane of Thought as it was blocking the Prime. 

Shadows and shapes were already beginning to appear on the lens's surface.  And then he saw a person:  a young man, sitting on a carpeted floor with his legs crossed.  He was leaning forward with a curious expression, and he was holding some sort of curved, blue device in his hands.  Davenport had seen him only once before, when he'd manifested on the deck of the Starblaster and had proceeded to shoot at the Hunger's monstrous form with magic blasts from his fingers.

"Joaquin?" he asked.  "You're Joaquin, right?  I'm Davenport of the--"

"Wow!"  Joaquin stared.  "Captain Davenport?  From the Story?  Holy shit!  Why are you in my TV?  Are you, like, _in_ Dragon Age?  Is Taako there with you?"

"Uh…no, I'm actually trying to contact him," he said.  "But I'm going to need your help with that."

"Sure, of course!  Are we saving the universe again?  Because that was--I gotta say, that was a pretty big mess, with the Hunger, and I'm not sure I want that to happen again, because it broke a _lot_ of shit."

"Yeah, not that," he said.  "But we will be saving Faerun, so still a pretty big deal."

"Okay, sure!"  Joaquin saluted awkwardly.  "Uh, aye-aye, Captain?"

Davenport winced.  "There's no need for that.  I just need a very small favor.  Listen close, Joaquin, here's what I need you to do…"


	39. Arsenal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lup reaches out, and is heard. Taako puts some cultists on blast. Barry has regrets.

The first thing Lup had noticed about the Raven Queen's realm was how awfully, dreadfully quiet it was.  The usually calm sea had no tides, no waves: it was as perfectly mirror-still as a pond on a windless morning.  The cavernous spaces of the fortress seemed to swallow sound, and her fellow Reapers always spoke in quiet voices, as if afraid of disturbing sleepers.  She suspected it was just for the Aesthetic.

Naturally, she and Barry had decided to liven things up around the ol' Fortress, and maybe breathe some life into its dusty halls and muted offices.  They wheeled in Barry's piano and Lup pulled her violin from storage, and they practiced in their down-time and held impromptu jam sessions.  Soon the halls rang with their music.

(The whole thing with Lucretia was still a shit-storm in her family, but Lup would always be grateful that the woman she saw as a little sister had stored her precious instrument in a vault on the moon base, and not aboard the now-lost Starblaster.)

But when they weren't jamming, the calm silence of the Raven Queen's realm rolled back over everything like a blanket, from the dusty corners of the lower Archives to the vaulted ceiling of the throne room.

Whisper's realm had the opposite problem.  It wasn't particularly noisy in his marble halls.  But what drove Lup nuts was the constant, arrhythmic noise of distant battle: rolling booms and churning earth, the beat of marching soldiers and the squeal and grind of metal.  The sound made the floor vibrate and penetrated down to her bones.  It interrupted her train of thought and made the back of her teeth hurt.

"It is said that there was once a famous general," Whisper told her, "who deliberately fired cannons outside the military academy where new officers were trained.  He did this so that they would grow used to the noise, and learn how not to be distracted by it.  Is that not ingenious?"

This was his answer when she asked if they could get some sound-absorbing curtains up in here.  She took the hint.

So she went deeper into his fortress, hoping to find a quieter inner room where she could get a moment of peace, godsdammit.  After a decade inside the silencing curtains of the Umbrastaff, she never thought she'd be seeking out silence again, but here she was.

The best she could find was a small reading room crowded with books on weaponsmithing.  She tried not to think about that.  At least the battle noise was somewhat muted in here.

She flicked out her wand and opened a little square in the air.  Reaching inside, she pulled out her violin.

"You've come a long way from Legato," she said, turning it over in her hands.  "You're probably the most well-traveled violin in existence."

She tuned the strings, and rested it on her shoulder.  Time to add one more plane to the list.

She hadn't thought about what she wanted to play.  She just wanted to counter the noise of battle, and to hear something pleasant for once.  She just wanted to subtly flip off Whisper and let him know that she was still herself, no matter what he tried to make her.  She just wanted to remind herself that there was more to her than just damage.

She just wanted to think of Barry.

And so her fingers found the notes, playing her half of their Legato duet.  She closed her eyes, imagining Barry playing the other half.

The battle faded away.  She thought of Barry's nervous smile the night of the concert, recalled her own nervous energy.  She'd been so afraid her fingers would shake too much to play.  She'd been so afraid of confessing her feelings.

But there hadn't been anything to be afraid of, had there?

She paused in her playing, and reached one hand into her pocket.  She had Barry's number on speed-dial, natch, and she didn't even have to pull out her Stone to tap out the runes to call him. 

The Stone hummed softly as it connected.  "Hello?" came Barry's rough, beautiful voice.  "Lup?  Is that you?"

She placed her bow on the strings, and began to play her part from the beginning.  Barry's voice trailed off into silence, but she knew he was listening.

And then, from her pocket, the sound of a piano drifted up to her ears.  Her heart swelled, and she found herself smiling, her love for this man uncontainable even here in this palace of war.  Their music danced together, the piano a steady rhythmic support while the violin soared above; and then the violin became the descant while the piano carried the melody into a thoughtful meander; and then the two spoke back and forth, a loving call-and-response between heaven and earth.  She pictured Barry's fingers running along the keys, felt the warmth of his hand in hers--

Her fingers seized up.  She had a split second to register Whisper's sudden, room-filling presence before the violin was smacked from her hands.  It cracked hard against the marble floor, the delicate wooden body shattering.

She stared at it in numb horror.  She'd carried it through half a century of cycles, and it had survived another 15 years on Faerun, through thick and thin.  But now it was gone.

"You will not play in my hall," Whisper growled.  She looked up at him, and for the first time since she'd met him, he looked furious.  He flicked one hand, and the shattered pieces burst into flame.  "I will not have it."

"What.  The.  Fuck," said Lup.

Whisper turned his back to her.  "I have a new mission for you," he said.  "You are to go at once to Goldcliff.  One of the explosions that took place four days ago collapsed a tunnel beneath the city.  You will clear the tunnel as quickly and quietly as possible.  Then return here for further instruction."

"You _broke_ my fucking violin—"

"Shall I get Barry Bluejeans to do this in your stead?  He is a softer, more pliable soul."

She glared at his backside. 

"You will depart at once."

The weight of his presence squeezed her spine.  "Fine," she growled.  She sliced open a hole in the air, and left.

 

#

 

She wasn't just getting tired of these little errands.  She was getting increasingly suspicious of them.  Whisper was a master strategist; she doubted this was pointless busy-work, but specific tasks needed to ensure his long-term goals.  But to what end?  He was keeping her so focused on the granular, she couldn't see the bigger picture.

The tunnel in question appeared to be an abandoned length of the sewer system, now walled-off and dry.  The brick walls were badly cracked and crumbling.  The collapsed portion was pretty easy to find.  About half a dozen dusty, exhausted-looking workers were picking at the pile with crowbars, shovels, and pickaxes, but the substantial rockpile would probably take at least a few more days to clear out.

"Okay," she said, rolling up her sleeves.  "Clear a path, because things are about to get Luped!"

The workers quickly scrambled out of the way, shouting her name in surprise.  One of them, a wiry middle-aged human, fell to his knees and started crying.  His fingers worried a small talisman hanging around his neck on a thin piece of twine.

Being an experienced adventurer and not a dumbass, Lup started with a Wall of Force to support the ceiling and walls before she even touched the debris.  She cast Transmute Stone, turning the pile of fallen rocks and dirt into a big, sloppy pile of mud.  Then, a simple Move Earth spell, lifting the mud to the curving tunnel ceiling, and then superheating that shit until the mud melted and hardened into one curving sheet of obsidian.  A thermal spell quickly dismissed the heat so that the tunnel didn't become an oven.  Then she dropped the wall of force.

The workers cried out their thanks in the tone of grateful supplicants.  The human on his knees held up the talisman and bowed his head to pray.

The talisman was an image of a seven-pointed star.

Damn it.  More cultists.

Which meant…whatever this fall had been blocking was of interest to Whisper, and he wanted his followers to have access to it.

"You there," she said, pointing to Kneeling Guy.  "I, Lup Taaco, have some questions for you."

He stared up at her.  "Of—of course, mistress emissary.  Whatever you want to know!"

She hooked a thumb down the tunnel.  "What's down here?  And be honest, or I'm going to start smiting."

The man looked at her, puzzled, as if this was some sort of trick question, or a test of his devotion.  "One of the church's armories," he said.  "Stored here for when the great war finally happens.  High Empyreal Wick has declared that the time is now.  We need to get these to the distribution site, so they can be delivered to the Goldcliff Militia before it leaves the city for battle."

 Lup raised an eyebrow.  She walked down into the cleared tunnel, following it until she found a heavy iron door.  A single blast of Scorching Ray cut through the locks.  She pulled the door open.

Inside, the room was stocked wall-to-wall with weapons.  Swords, daggers, maces, at least five different types of polearms, even a cannon.  She cast Detect Magic, and the room flooded her inner vision with light.

Every single weapon in here was enchanted.  And she doubted they were enchanted with protective spells.  If she knew Wick's style, every one of these was tricked out to do maximum damage.

She drew a sword from its sheath, and its blade burst into flames.  She tried a dagger, and the blade sparked with trapped lightning.  She reached for a polearm, but quickly drew her hand back the moment the steel tip began to ooze a sickly green liquid.

The workers had gathered behind her, peering through the doorway, staring like she was some kind of priest inspecting a holy inner sanctum to see if it passed muster.

"Okay," she said.  "Okay.  This isn't going to fucking do at all."  And she channeled a fireball into her hand, ready to destroy every single item in the room.

The fireball fizzled.  She tried a Scorching Ray, and got the same result.

_Your power is mine now,_ said Whisper, in the back of her head.  _Your fire, my fire._

Bullshit.  She clenched her fists in frustration. 

"Fuck this," she said, turning to the workers.  "And fuck you, too, for thinking this is some great idea!  It's not great, and it's not holy, and—"  She felt Whisper's hold tightening on her, squeezing the words in her throat.  "Fuck this," she spat, and cut a hole in the air, and stormed back to Whisper's realm.

 

#

           

"Didja catch that?" Barry asked, trying to keep his voice in a low whisper.  "What did she say?  What do your—"

"If you ask me what my elf eyes see one more time, Barold, I will blast you," said Taako.  "I saw some flashes coming from the room Lup was in, and then she swore at the thugs standing around, and then she vanished into a flaming portal."

"Uh, thanks."  They'd avoided using torches or magical light down here, to try not to attract anyone's attention while they tailed Lup from a distance.  But that meant that all-too-human Barry had to rely on Taako to see or hear anything.  Which was frustrating, but still their safest option.

He just wanted to see her.  He just wanted to make sure she was okay.  The last he'd heard from her had been the sound of shattering wood and snapping violin strings, followed by her swearing at Whisper.  And then the Stone call had cut off, leaving Barry at his piano, alone.

Taako cast Detect Magic.  "Well.  That room is lighting up like a Candlenights Tree," he said.  "So whatever's in there, it's hella magic."

The workers stood around in a tight circle just outside the iron door, muttering to each other, looking sort of confused. 

"Close your eyes," said Taako.  He leaned out from their little hiding place, which was behind a pile of previously-excavated rocks further down the tunnel.  He cast Sunbeam, aiming for the small cluster of cultists.

There were half a dozen screams, and then silence.  The brilliant light died down.

Taako snapped his fingers, summoning a mage light.  "Okay," he said, his voice flat and numb.  "You can look now."

Barry looked.  Six bodies lay sprawled on the tunnel floor, badly singed and still smoking.  He had no idea if they were dead or just unconscious.  He suspected the former.

Well.  Not that he could blame Taako.  He stepped gingerly over the probably-corpses and peered into the room.

It was a substantial armory, packed floor to ceiling with enchanted weapons.

"Well," said Taako.  "I think our course of action is obvious, if you follow me."

Barry nodded, throat dry.  "Y-yeah," he said. 

They destroyed the place.  They spammed Fireball and Dispel Magic and Shatter, they pulled out Rust Ray and Miasma of Entropy, till not a single weapon in the room hadn't been reduced to ash and splinters and puddles of cooling metal.

All the while that they worked, Barry turned it all over in his head.  Lup had been sent on several "missions" by Whisper, all of them seemingly benign or random.  But this mission had been to unblock a tunnel so a bunch of Whisper's cultists could reach their secret armory.  Which raised the critical question:  had all her missions somehow been helping the church in some roundabout way?  He wished now that they'd been more diligent in poking around after her.

He wished a lot of things.

The room smelled of ashes, burning metal, and disrupted magic.  The whole thing left an acrid taste in the back of Barry's throat.  Beside him, Taako dropped his wand and sighed. 

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he said.

Barry hesitated, feeling that same moment of disconnected loneliness that had plagued him during his first search for Lup.  The sense that she had been where he was now standing, and he was only a few minutes too late.  That they were a couple severed by time itself.

He ran a hand down his face.  "Yeah," he said, feeling incredibly weary.  "Yeah, let's go."

 

#

 

"…and Sister Rapier reports that Sterling's forces are moving out of Neverwinter," said Sister Herald.  "The Goldcliff Militia, meanwhile, is on track to leave at first light tomorrow--"

Hurried whispers sounded outside the door to Wick's office.  Fury was instantly on guard, one hand on the pommel of his blade; there was a note of panic in the sound which he did not like. 

A low knock sounded.  Literally low to the ground.  Brother Gear.  "High Empyreal?" the gnome squeaked. 

Wick frowned.  "Come in, Brother Gear.  What is the commotion?"

The gnome looked pale.  "M-my lord," he said, "we have some, uh, news from the, uh, retrieval team.  Well, not specifically _from_ the retrieval team, but _about_ the retrieval team, because, ah, ah…"

"Well?  Out with it, Brother Gear."

The gnome looked from Wick to Sister Herald to Fury and back to Wick.  "The retrieval team…they were attacked.  Killed!  Most of them.  There was one survivor…"

Wick frowned.  "Who attacked them?"

Brother Gear blanched.  He looked behind him; lingering just outside the doorway was a badly injured young dragonborn.

"It was the Birds, High Empyreal," he said, in a low, distraught whisper. 

Wick raised one eyebrow.  "Come into the room, my child," he said.  "Shut the door behind you.  Tell me exactly what happened."  He turned to face the supplicant, hands folded behind himself, back to the black cabinet with its so-called divine sword and bowl of coins.

The dragonborn minced in after Gear, scorched shoulders hunched; he was about twice as tall as the gnome but managed to act even more deferential.  "We…we were digging out the collapsed tunnel, High Empyreal.  We said a prayer--Thomas said we should pray to the Fire of Heaven, that we should reach his holy armaments in time.  And then one of the Seven appeared to aid us!  Lup, the Hand of Fire, appeared to us, and she cleared out the tunnel, by his divine will."  A smile spread across his scaled muzzle.  But it quickly faded.  "But after she helped us, she--she told us what we were doing was wrong.  She was angry when she saw the arsenal.  And then she left, and then--"  He winced.  "We were struck down by a blast of burning sunlight.  I…I think I was knocked unconscious.  But when I came to, the others were dead, and--and two more of the Birds--Taako and Barry Bluejeans--were destroying the weapons.  And then they left."

Wick stared at him, silent.  His face was a cool mask, but Fury saw his sallow cheeks grow paler than normal; he saw the sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

"M-my lord," the dragonborn squeaked.  "Have we angered the Fire of Heaven?  Have we…have we been abandoned?"

Fury knew Wick well.  He was a true believer, but he was also savvy and good with words.  In a few seconds, he'd unspool some soothing bullshit litany of how they must have faith, how perhaps their god was merely angry at some failing of the dragonborn's companions but not the overall goal itself. 

But in that brief silence, Fury saw doubt flicker in Wick's eyes.  And everyone else saw it too.

It was the opening Fury had been waiting for.  The gold coin was already in his hand.  He tossed it in the bowl, and in the same motion he drew the sword Wick claimed was divine, and he drove it into Wick's back.

And then he was somewhere else.  He stood in a hall of dark, polished marble, next to a long table of red-lacquered wood trimmed in gold.  The chamber was lit by a fire roaring in a brick hearth--no, a forge--at one end of the room.  Arrayed all over the table were weapons of all makes and kinds: swords and daggers, morningstars and glaives, axes and polearms.  They were set on display stands or laid upon velvet pillows, like wares set out for sale.

On the other side of the table stood an elf in red robes, whose eyes were like drops of blood in a face as white as the moon.  He spread his arms wide, indicating the display of armaments.

"Choose your weapon," he said.

Fury regarded the elf coolly.  He had no idea where he was, and he didn't appreciate being pulled out of the temple at his moment of triumph.  But he suspected there was some powerful sorcery at play, and caution would serve him more than violence.  "Where am I?" he asked.  "Why have you brought me here?

The elf smiled.  "Choose your weapon."

"Is this a test?" he asked, keeping his voice even.  "Or a threat?"

The elf raised his hands to show they were empty.  "Not a test," he said, "or a threat, but an offer.  A free gift, if you will."

"There's no such thing as a free gift."  His eyes took in every detail in the room, checking for other figures who might be hidden in the shadows, mapping potential escape routes.  "There's always a string attached, no matter how subtle."

The elf's smile widened.  "Very perceptive," he said.  "I like you more and more...Kalen."

Fury gave him a hard look.  "Who told you my name?"

"Gods are not deceived by psuedonyms.  I can only know you as you really are."

A god, huh?  He snorted.  He'd always assumed Wick had been full of shit about his precious god of global war.  And this could probably just be some powerful wizard fucking with him.  Still, it was best to play along.  He wanted to see where this went.  "So you're 'the one who dances above the battlefield'?  I suppose the idea is, I take one of your 'free gifts' and you'll expect me to worship you?  Pay you a tithe, make sacrifices?  That sort of thing?"

The elf seemed to be considering this.  Considering him.  "Think of this more as a job offer," he said.  "It is hard to find good emissaries these days, ones who are truly passionate about my works.  As it happens, I have a vacancy opening up.  And I can use a man who knows how to make his own opportunities."  He looked pointedly at Fury, seemingly not at all put out that Fury had just killed his own high priest.  "If you accept this role, I will grant you access to a portion of my power.  All I ask of you is to keep doing what you were already planning to do.  Seize the power you desire.  Control the levers of the war machine to do your bidding.  Make this world into the image you see in your mind's eye:  where the strong rule the weak, and where you are the strongest of all."

Fury looked at him, looked at all the weapons arrayed on the table before him.  He'd never served a god before, and the thought left a sour taste in his mouth.  Then again, this one didn't seem interested in yet another sniveling Brother Gear.  What he wanted was results, and he was happy to put Fury on top of the world in order to get them. 

He picked up a brutal-looking flail, whose jagged iron head dangled from a long chain.  "You help me get what I want," he said, "and I'll make the Relic Wars look like a picnic in the park."


	40. Where You Need to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren tells a story. Taako ties up some loose threads. Paloma does some people-watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for violence in this chapter.

Kalen stood in Wick's chamber, the divine sword in his hand, driven up to the hilt in Wick's back.  The cleric gasped, choked, and sagged to his knees.  Kalen placed a boot on the small of his back and shoved him forward, pulling the sword out.

Wick hit the floor hard.  Gear, Herald, and the dragonborn all stepped back, stunned momentarily into silence.  The sword in Kalen's hand shifted, transforming into the flail he had chosen from Whisper's table. 

"The Guiding Whisper hasn't rejected our plan," he said.  "This was a test of our loyalty and resilience.  Wick has failed."

Herald frowned.  "And put you in charge?" she asked, and it was obvious from her tone that she didn't believe it for a second.

He brought the flail down on her.  She leapt to the side, and perhaps she might have dodged if it had been an ordinary weapon.  But the jagged ball on the end swerved at an unnatural angle, striking her in the ribs and slamming her into the wall.  Kalen heard the satisfying crack as her neck snapped.  She fell to the ground, dead.

"Yes," he said.  "Any other questions?" 

Brother Gear and the dragonborn both fell to their knees, the latter in terror and the former in shuddering ecstasy.  "High Empyreal Fury!" Gear cried. 

Kalen allowed himself a moment to enjoy the abject supplication.  Then he cleared his throat.  "All right," he said.  "Gear, get our Waterdeep agents on the Stone.  They have extra stock in their arsenal; they are to take their surplus and sell it to the Goldcliff Militia en route to battle.  Then round up a group of six of our strongest and most devoted worshippers, and send them to the cherry tree."

"The…the tree, my lord?"

Kalen was already running swift calculations in his mind.  This gameboard was now his, and the last thing he wanted was unexpected opponents interfering at the last minute.  And if there was anyone who'd shown herself to be aggravatingly persistent in poking her nose into the church's business, it was Officer Hurley.

"As soon as the Militia forces are out of sight of the city walls," he said, "you are to burn that tree to the ground."

 

#

 

Taako dropped into a chair in his dining room with a sigh.  He drew his knees up to his chest, stewing once again on the shit-show they'd found themselves in.  He'd killed those dudes and blasted that armory and he still felt no closer to rescuing his sister or stopping the fucking god of global war.  He missed Kravitz, but the last thing he wanted was for his boyfriend to be on even the same plane as Ruin.  So here he was in his dining room, which had become his and Barry's HQ as they tracked Lup across the world.  Maps covered the long table, alongside lists of where Lup had gone when, and what she'd done there, and who had been in the vicinity.  Any details they could use to try to get ahead of Whisper's larger plan. 

It was obvious that Whisper's manipulations had gotten Goldcliff and Neverwinter to declare war on each other.  But if they were gonna stop the puppetmaster, they needed to know exactly where the strings were being pulled.  But the high priest dude and the rest of his followers had gone even further underground after the attack in Goldcliff.  So now he and Barry were stuck following Lup's breadcrumbs, and getting abso-fucking-lutely nowhere.

Meanwhile, the sky outside was a sickly yellow-green like bile, and the swollen red moon wobbled loose in the sky.  It certainly killed the view from the big dining room windows he'd been so fucking proud of. 

"Okay," said Barry, circling Goldcliff on a map and adding some notes, "hidden arsenal beneath Goldcliff, and cultists trying to retrieve weapons.  If Whisper's behind the push to war, then that means they were probably going to give the weapons to the Militia.  Or possibly to both sides."  He tapped the quill restlessly on the paper. 

Taako pulled out his Stone of Farspeech.  He'd left it on silent mode in the tunnel, but now it blinked a soft, intermittent glow:  someone had left a message.

It was Ren.  "Hey Taako, I wanted to let you know, I've shut down the school.  Most of the students and staff have left to be with their families, so I thought it for the best to just close the doors until the whole world-ending thing is resolved.  I'm heading back to Refuge, to see if I can help out there. If you get this message, could you call me back?  There are some…well, some things I'd like to tell you.  And I don't want to just say it in a message.  It's personal.  Anyway, hope you and the family are well!  I hope to hear from you soon."

The message ended with a click.

Taako stared at the Stone.

"Hey Barold," he said softly.

Barry looked up from the map he was staring at.  Gods, Taako was so over 'Sad Barry Staring at Maps.'  He's had enough of that for two lifetimes.  "Yeah, bud?"

Taako stood, stretched, made sure his hat was on straight.  "I need a lift to Refuge."

 

#

           

He found Ren at the counter of the Davy Lamp.  It was just like that first time they'd met:  her sleeves were rolled up, her head was tilted down as she wiped a glass tankard clean.  The tip of her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth, as it always did when she was dead focused on a task. 

But the mood in the tavern was heavier this time.  The voices were muffled, the conversation somber and intermittent. 

Ren looked up.  Taako watched surprise and then joy wash over her features.  It eased his heart a little, to see her happy.  To see someone still looking up to him, even if he hadn't done shit to stop the end of the world.

"Oh my god, it's Taako!" she said, as if seeing him for the first time.

Taako snort-laughed.  "Yeah, it's me," he said.  "Feast your eyes!"

She chuckled.  "It's good to see you out here!  I thought…well, to be honest, I wasn't sure when we were gonna see each other again, what with the apocalypse going on, and…not that I don't have faith that you'll knock this one out of the park, like you always do!"  She laughed, a little too nervously.

"I got your message."

Ren's brittle smile faded.  "Oh, that," she said.  "Look, it's not anythin' so important that you needed to come in person, I just…"  She rubbed the back of her head, where her white hair was pulled back into a sensible but messy bun. 

"Nah, let's hear it," he said.  "I mean, you've spent the past few years practically running my business for me, let's be honest.  The least I could do is see you in person."

A blush crept across her dark cheeks.  She leaned towards the swinging doors that led back into the kitchen.  "Hey June," she called, "could you cover for me?  I'm stepping out for a minute."  She took Taako's hand and led him outside.

It was nighttime in Refuge.  The streets were empty, and Taako couldn't blame anyone for that.  The sky was a mess of falling stars, weird off-color auroras, and a wobbly red moon.  Nobody wanted to look at that.  The only stable thing in the sky was the BoB's moon base.

Ren was still holding Taako's hand.  "I have somethin' I been meaning ta tell ya for a while," she said, her drawl thickening.  "I guess it's kind of a confession, maybe?"  She laughed nervously.  "I dunno how it was on your world, but…you know how it is with drow here, right?  Like, you know what it means for a drow like me to be living up topside like this."

Taako nodded.  It meant Ren was an exile.  It meant the vast majority of her people viewed her as a traitor, and would try to kill her on sight if she ever went back.  It wasn't a surprise that she'd ended up in Refuge, the sunniest gods-damned place on Faerun.  Sure it meant spenting most of her days indoors, or wearing big floppy sunhats and huge sunglasses (which was a Look, as far as Taako was concerned).  But it also meant that the likelihood of a random drow wandering into town was close to zilch.  Refuge was the safest place she could be.

So it had surprised him that she'd been willing to move to the big city to help run his school.  But he'd figured his prodigious and well-earned reputation, as well as her own skills, would be enough to keep her safe…and it had, as far as he knew.

"You know it never mattered to me," he said.  "If anyone from the Underdark ever tried to lay a hand on you, you know I'd just blast 'em for you.  Assuming you don't blast 'em first."

"Yeah, I know.  I still worry sometimes, but I stopped letting that fear run my life."  She shook her head.  "But I…Taako, I wanted to tell you _how_ I left.  I came up topside one night, when the moon was full.  I was with some friends, and we were all doin' it as sort of like a teenage dare.  I was raised ta fear the sky and ta be suspicious of anyone from up here."

Taako nodded.  His Underdark show had drawn a good-sized audience, but there'd been an unhealthy amount of suspicion mixed in with the curious stares.  As if most of them had come just to make sure he didn't start trouble.  He only did three shows there before coming back up, and vowed never to go back.

"Well, here I was," said Ren, "up topside and starin' at the moon and the stars, sorta in shock.  And then I heard this music, playin' in the distance.  It sounded like…and you're probably gonna think this is weird, but it sounded like the jingle you always played before your show.  The 'Sizzle it Up!' theme." 

Taako glanced at her.  He scrambled back in his memory, wondering when this might have happened.  "Where was this?"

She shook her head.  "Probably somewhere you've never been.  But I swore I heard it anyway.  And I just had ta follow it.  I thought, I'd get another chance ta see you.  Maybe learn some new cooking secrets.  And then I got separated from my friends, and dawn was comin', and…a part of me knew I had to go back, but another part a' me was like, why?  The sky was so beautiful, and…and _you_ were up here, and I couldn't help wonderin', what else is up here that I might be missin' out on?"

"Well, if you were hopin' for more Taako, I'm afraid you're outta luck there.  I'm a pretty, uh, unique feature of the upper world."

She smiled.  "Yeah, you are."  She glanced at him sideways.  "You ever hear of…Eilistraee?"

He shook his head.  The name didn't ring a bell.

"Well, that's not surprising.  She's…not really well known.  She's a drow goddess of the moon, but we're not supposed to talk about her.  See, we're all supposed to worship Lolth, and hate the topside, and not question the elders, ever.   And even the smallest hint of doubt and difference is punished.  But Eilistraee…well, she don't abide by that.  She can't rebel openly against Lolth, but she finds other ways ta help us.  Like, sometimes, when drow come out under the light of the moon, sometimes she'll sing to us.  Pull us away from the Underdark's hold.  Get us to notice the beauty up here.  She…"  Ren hesitated, tilting her face up to the red moon.  "She saved me, Taako.  And she did it with _your song._   So, in a way, you saved me too."  She squeezed his hand.  "I wanted you to know."

Taako didn't say anything.  His throat was too tight.  He wanted to make a quip here, to touch this impossible gratitude lightly, but he just couldn't manage it.

It should've made him feel better.  But the fact that he'd saved Ren just made it more obvious to him how he wasn't saving Lup right now.  How he wasn't doing anything to actually stop the fucking apocalypse and make Ren's brave journey worth it somehow.

And let's face it:  Ren came back to Refuge because this place was her home, her _family_ , and she wanted to be with her family when the end finally came.

"Taako?"  Ren's voice broke into his thoughts.  He realized the silence had stretched too long.  "What's wrong?"  A pause.  "Was it somethin' I—"

"No, no, you're good," he said.  "Ren, you're a good person."  His ears flattened and his throat tightened.  "Listen, the bad guy—we know who he is now—he's got Lup.  It's bad, and I don't know how to fix it, or if I _can_ fix it."

"Wait, you know who's behind all this?  The missing gods, the—that weird wyrm in the sky?"

"He's the god of global war, Ren.  And I'm a pretty dope wizard but this guy is fuckin'—he's got Lup, and he's always five steps ahead of us, and he's a—a fuckin' _god_ , Ren.  And I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do to stop him.  And—and this is just between us, Ren, just between you and me, but do you have any ideas?  Because Taako is fresh out, and you've got a good head on your shoulders and you've never let me down."

Ren's eyes were wide in the moonlight.  "Well," she said after a moment.  "That's quite a challenge.  I mean, you can't really kill a god, far as I know.  But if you managed to get the other gods back from wherever they are, they might be able to, I dunno—contain him or something?  I'm sure they don't want the world to end."

"They're stuck inside Ruin," said Taako.  "That thing's impenetrable."      

"Well, you know where they are, that's a start," said Ren.  "What about Istus's blessings?  Luca said y'all got divine artifacts of hers, maybe they can help?  They're not the Light of Creation, but divine artifacts ain't nothin' ta sneeze at."

Taako shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual as his fingers brushed against Istus's aggravating sampler.  He glanced in the direction of the temple, with its still-unmoving clock.

"Fuck," he said, because he knew what he had to do.  Ren never had steered him wrong.  That sampler was the one thing he hadn't tried.  And there was nothing in this world, he realized, that he wouldn't do for his sister.

He took her by the shoulders.  "Ren," he said, "I'm glad you came up to the surface.  I haven't always been, like, a good person," and he held up a finger to keep her from protesting, "but you've stuck by me, and that means the fuckin' world.  If we survive all this, you're getting a pay raise.  I will not accept negotiation on this fact."  And then he hugged her.

She gasped softly, and hugged him in return.  "Taako, I…thank you," she said.  "And for what it's worth, I believe you can do it.  I believe you can save the world."

If a few tears pricked his eyes, he wiped them away with Prestidigitation before Ren could see.  "Just watch me," he said.  He took a deep breath, flashed her a winning smile, and headed straight for Istus's temple.

 

#

 

Leon was exactly where Taako expected him to be: sitting at his desk by the broken Fantasy Gashapon, nose in a book, long beard trailing down to the floor.  The temple was dim at this time of night, but Leon was illuminated by half a dozen colored lanterns set around his desk.  The light cast rainbow shimmers over the tapestry of Istus that hung behind the alter.

He looked up at the sound of Taako's approach.  A series of Looks passed over the old gnome's features: wariness, curiosity, annoyance, resignation.  But then all his features smoothed out into a mask of calm.  He steepled his fingers over the open pages of his book.  "Taako," he said.

"Leon," said Taako.  "So.  I got somethin' to say, and you're gonna listen, because I'm only gonna say it once.  And it's not gonna leave this temple."

Leon raised a bushy white eyebrow.  "All right," he said.

Taako took a deep breath, and let it out.  He couldn't believe he was gonna do this.  But he just pictured Lup's frown, and Davenport's disappointment, and the smile on Istus's face when she told him he was going to be amazing.  Of course he was amazing.  There was no reason he couldn't do this, and lots of reasons why he should.

"I'm sorry," he said.  "You didn't fuckin' do anything to deserve my shitty attitude.  I was in a bad headspace and—fuck it, dude, you were tryin' your best."

Leon said nothing. 

Something deep inside the Gachapon gave way with a sudden snap and grind of metal.  Like a stuck gear coming loose.  And then there was that familiar sound of something rolling around inside.  A capsule dropped into the bowl at the bottom.

Taako picked up the capsule and opened it.  Inside was a pair of long, silver knitting needles.  In the light, they shimmered in subtle rainbow colors.  He picked up one needle, and the hairs on the back of his arm stood with the arcane power flowing through them.    

Leon nodded.  "Well.  It seems  Istus has seen fit to bless you with another gift!  Or, perhaps it's part two of the same gift.  A loose thread has been woven back into the tapestry, and the image becomes more clear."

He rolled his eyes.  "Fuckin' knew it.  Goin' around apologizing to everyone, and it's _you_ I finally have to tie things up with."  He slipped the needles through his hat band.  "We cool now?"

"Hmm."  Leon glanced down at his book, as if the answer might be written there.  "I accept your apology, Taako.  Although—and I hope you understand this—I would be perfectly content if we never met again."  He closed the book, set it on a pile, and began gathering up his various belongings. 

Yeah.  Yeah, Taako understood that.  He still felt that way, sometimes, when he saw Lucretia. 

"My duty to Istus is done," said Leon.  "I do hope you can save the world, so I can pack up my collection and return to my warren.  The people of Refuge have been quite lovely and accomodating, but I could do with a bit more green in my life.  And our Friday game nights have been too quiet here since Paloma left."

A spike of fear shot through Taako.  The world was falling apart, armies were marching everywhere, and Paloma still hadn't returned to Refuge?  "Where, uh, where is she?  Has anyone heard from her?"

Leon smiled.  "Oh, don't you worry about her," he said.  "She's a very accomplished divination wizard.  I'm sure she's exactly where she needs to be." 

 

#

 

Paloma sat beneath the spreading boughs of the cherry tree, and watched the Goldcliff militia march past her to the city gates.  The wind that plucked at their banners pulled another browning leaf from the branches above her, and sent it drifting down into the fountain.

In its few short years of existence, Hurley and Sloane's cherry tree had become something of a symbol of the city.  Perhaps it was unsurprising, with all this war and fire and fuss, that the tree was dying.  She suspected some of the soldiers thought that, too; a few of them, the ones with softer faces beneath their helmets, shot glances at the tree or gave it a salute as they walked.  But they all kept walking, and that was the problem.

Jess sat down beside her, tucking a Stone of Farspeech back into her belt pouch.  "Well," she said in her rough voice, "I left a message.  Not sure if she'll show, though."

"She is a mother first," said Paloma.

Jess raised an eyebrow.  "I'm not sure if you mean that as 'yes, she'll come' or 'no, she won't.'"

Paloma shrugged.  The fact was, motherhood was such a complicated, multi-faceted thing, and there were no words she could use to pin down that form of bond.  Especially in the life of someone who worshipped the goddess of bonds. 

Jess watched the soldiers march past.  "So…" she said after a few minutes, "you think they'll wait until after the Militia are gone?"

Paloma nudged her old friend.  "You trying to steal my job, Jess?  I thought I predicted while you made with the beheading." 

Jess snorted.  "Just thinking tactically.  Always best to break the rules when the ref ain't looking."

They both fell silent, painfully aware that this was going to be far worse than someone chucking a chair into the ring.  And Paloma wasn't the spritely young witch she used to be. 

Jess's Stone buzzed.  The runes spelled out a familiar name.  She flicked the button for speaker mode, leaned over so Paloma could hear.  "Yeah?"

"We're in," said Hekuba.


	41. Built for War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry reconsiders his coffee drinking habit. Merle heads to war. Arumdina has a revelation.

Barry woke with a start, nearly spilling his coffee mug.  He'd been dreaming of the Starblaster again, of sleeping beside Lup.  And Davenport's voice was calling him, telling him to get up, but he didn't want to get up.  He just wanted to keep being here with Lup, in the quiet few minutes before reality came crashing down again--

"Barry!  Barry, you there?"

Really.  He was up, he was getting up.  He dug the heel of one hand into his eyes, fumbled for his glasses.  He was still in Taako's dining room.  He must've nodded off while studying his notes.

"Barry?  This is Davenport!  Come in, Barry!" 

He was awake now.  But he could still hear Davenport's voice, echoing from a long way away.  "Uh, Cap?" he asked, feeling stupid even as he asked.

"Down here!  In the--am I in a cup?"

Barry blinked.  He looked down into the coffee mug.  The surface of the liquid had transformed into a window of some sort, and looking through that window was Davenport.

"Holy shit!"  He jumped to his feet.  "Cap, you're--you're in my coffee mug!  Is this…really real?"

Davenport sighed in relief.  "It worked.  Look, Barry, I was able to set up a communications array from inside Ruin.  The signal is being bounced through the Plane of Thought, so there may be a delay.  But hopefully it should be more stable than the last one."

"You're…you're calling from inside Ruin?"  In theory it was possible, but Barry's brain was still sluggish from sleep and couldn't quite parse what was happening. 

"Yes, I--"

"Is this one of the Reapers you spoke of?" came an imperious voice from beside Davenport. 

"Yes, it's Barry.  One of your, uh, employees--"

Davenport was pushed aside, and a pale woman with dark hair appeared.  Her eyes narrowed.  She looked off-screen.  "This soft man?" she asked.  "Are you certain?  He does not have the look of a man tasked with maintaining the rolls of the dead."

Barry's jaw dropped.  "Your--your majesty!"  He was so thankful he didn't blurt out "Bird Mom."  It was so weird seeing her without her mask of black lace and feathers.  She looked…incredibly not like an intimidating, ineffable god of death.

She raised one dark eyebrow.  "Hmm.  At least you show the appropriate level of respect."

Davenport cleared his throat and pushed himself back into view.  "Just a moment, please," he said.  "I promise you'll be able to talk later, but right now, Barry, we need to exchange information, and put our heads together.  All the gods are inside Ruin with me, but Ruin cut them all off from their divine power.  They're effectively mortal, with no memory of their time as gods."

"Oh," said Barry.  "…Huh."  That explained a lot.

"I've been making, uh, some inroads on that, but it's been slow going.  How are things out there?"

"Uh…pretty bad, actually?"  He picked up the mug and carried it outside, telling Davenport about all the ways the world was continuing to fall apart: stars falling from the sky, the fevered flush of organic growth giving way to withering and decay.  It looked like a crack was forming across the surface of the swollen moon, and Barry really didn't want to know what would happen if it just broke apart and started raining moon-chunks onto Faerun.  "Also, just before--uh--before that big Parley with, uh, Whisper…"  Even now, Barry didn't like saying his name out loud.  "There was an attack on Goldcliff, which we think was a setup by the Church of the Cleansing Fire.  But the mayor of Goldcliff is convinced it was Neverwinter, so now Goldcliff and Neverwinter have declared war on each other…" 

"That's…shit, that's not good, Barry," said Davenport.  "That will only make Whisper stronger."

"Yeah, that's what I figured, too."  He stood on Taako's front porch, watched as another handful of stars fell over the horizon.  "Last I heard, Merle was heading over to talk to Artemis, but if he's had any luck trying to stop this mess, I haven't heard it."

Davenport was silent for so long that Barry looked down into his mug to check that his captain was still there.  He was, but now Barry wondered if he had to keep a mug full of stale coffee around in order to maintain the connection.  If he drank it, or spilled the coffee, would Davenport vanish?  What would happen if the coffee evaporated completely?  Did he just need to make sure there was liquid in the cup, or would changing the makeup of the cup's contents end the call?  Or was the liquid irrelevant, and the bottom of the cup was the real lens?

"What about Lup?" Davenport asked suddenly.  "Is she, uh--have you seen her since Whisper…"  He trailed off, either unsure of what word to use, or unwilling to speak it out loud.

Barry ran a hand down his face, trying to clamp down on the feeling of cold nausea in his gut.  "She's…um.  Alive, in one piece.  Running errands for Whisper, right now."  And he told Davenport about all the things she'd done, and Barry and Taako's efforts to follow and interpret her breadcrumbs.  Davenport tugged at his mustache, his 'concerned captain' face at full force.

"And Angus?"

Barry opened his mouth, closed it again.  He actually hadn't heard from or about Angus in a while.  "Wasn't he, uh, helping Lucretia or something?"

Davenport's eyes widened.  "Barry," he said, leaning forward so his face filled the liquid lens.  _"Where's Angus?"_

"I, uh…don't really know, to be honest?"

Davenport's stare was intense.  "You need to find him," he said.  "He's in trouble."

"Oh shit."  Barry was already walking back into the house.  "What kind of trouble?"

There was a long pause, before Davenport said, in a tight voice, "Whisper got him, too."

 

#

 

Merle didn't like this, not one bit. 

"We have a secret weapon," Artemis had told him.  "This battle will be quick, but if things turn bad, we can end it quickly.  One push of a button."  He seemed to genuinely believe this was a good thing.

Merle glanced over at the weapon in question.  It moved along with the army, large and slow and ponderous, covered with a tarp. 

At night, when the army stopped to make camp, the tarp was pulled off, revealing a sleek silver cannon the size of a train engine.  Then workers would scurry over it, making adjustments, checking schematics, scratching more amplifier runes into its length.  All while whats-her-face, Lady Silverthorn, watched with a cold smile.

Now, Merle was no engineer, but he'd be damned if that thing had been built in under a week.  No, Silverthorn had this lying around somewhere, almost complete, and all she'd needed was a willing buyer and a stamp of approval.  And Artemis gave her both. 

And here was Merle, marching with the Neverwinter army to go meet another army, in the hopes that he could somehow talk Artemis out of this whole mess.  But the few times he'd managed to squeeze in a minute with the busy lord, he'd been given the brush off.  "Merle," he said, "I respect you, and I appreciate the fact that you're willing to contribute to our cause, but this is bigger than you.  Now, kindly release me from Parley.  And if you try this again, I _will_ take action."

'Contribute to our cause.'  Just because he'd offered to heal the wounded.  Merle snorted.  It wasn't their fault that their leaders were playing with their lives like pawns on a chessboard.

So he tried to Parley with Mayor Coronus.  "It's a setup," he said.  "The Church of the Cleansing Fire attacked your city, not Artemis."

Coronus rolled his eyes.  "Is that what that upstart Sterling told you to say?"

"No, it's--"

"Everyone knows you're in his pocket, _Earl Merle,_ " he said, and never had Merle heard his title dropped like an insult.  "Well, I have news for you.  You might have stopped the Hunger, but this isn't your world, Merle Highchurch.  And just because some upstart lord grants you a fancy title doesn't mean you're entitled to a seat at the table."

"Listen," he said, scrambling for a way to get this guy to see past his own nose, " _listen--_ "

"No," he said.

And then something sliced across Merle's cheek and landed, with a thud, in the wall behind him.  Cautiously, he turned to look.  It was a long, pearl-hilted dagger that still crackled with whatever magic had propelled it forward. 

"That was a warning shot," said Coronus.  He rested his chin on his thick, steepled fingers.  "Don't make this hard on yourself, Merle.  Thanks to the Story, I know _exactly_ how Parley works.  And the next shot won't miss."

Merle dropped out of Parley, terrified at the thought of leaving Mookie alone with an army.  He appeared back in his tent with a gasp.

"Pops!" said Mookie, scrambling over to him.  "You're bleeding!"

Merle reached up and touched his cheek.  His fingertips came away bloody.  "Just a scratch," he said.

Mookie frowned.  His pet baby owlbear grumbled, picking up on Mookie's mood.  It nudged his arm with one beak.  "No more Parley, pops," he said.  "That's an order."

Geez, his kid was starting to pick up habits from Davenport.  Or maybe this was what came of letting a kid hang around soldiers all day.

All this was hanging over his head like a cloud the next day, as he rode his pony Lil' Stompy and watched the covered cannon roll ever so slowly to its destination.  Great Pan, he was built for healing and mending and growing things.  And sometimes blasting bad guys in the face with some good old-fashioned holy light.  But war?  He wasn't built for war. 

Then again, was anybody really built for war?  He didn't think so.

"Hey pops," said Mookie, beside him.  "Whaddaya think it does?"  He patted the baby owlbear, who made a pleased chitter-growl as it marched alongside Merle's pony.  It was nearly the same size as Lil' Stompy, and seemed unfazed by the weight of Mookie on its back. 

Merle frowned.  "Nothin' good, fireball."

Mookie looked past him at the cannon, his forehead scrunched up.  The owlbear followed his gaze, its yellow eyes enormous in its feathery face.  (Mookie had named it Beary Owljeans.  "Because it's just like Uncle Barry, pops!" he'd explained.  "He looks cuddly and soft but he can totally rip someone's arms off if they hurt his family!"  Merle couldn't argue with that logic.)

"I'ma get a better look!" Mookie declared, and before Merle could react, the owlbear was already carrying his son away, closer to the giant tarp and the weapon it concealed. 

"Wait Mookie, hold on!"  Merle nudged Lil' Stompy, who snorted and tossed his head before deciding to follow the baby owlbear, against his better pony judgment.

At least the soldiers didn't seem bothered by Mookie's approach.  Mookie had been getting into everything lately so they knew him on sight, and honestly, a rambunctious dwarf kid riding an owlbear isn't easy to mistake for someone else.  So they smiled and waved, which broke Merle's heart open a second time because those soldiers were _people_ , damn it, and they deserved to not have to be soldiers.

"Hey!" said Mookie, climbing from his owlbear's back onto the cannon's giant wooden platform.  "Hey, what's this thing do?"

A few of the soldiers moved towards him then, not threatening (thank Pan) but calling to him in concern, trying to wave him down.  Merle nudged his pony through the gathering soldiers.  "Mookie, come down!" he called.  "Get down here before you get hurt!  Yer mom's gonna kill me if she knew I let ya go scrambling up all over a giant cannon--"

He hadn't seen Lady Silverthorn.  But there she was, perched up on a scaffolding ledge at the back of the cannon.  She saw Mookie first, then her gaze slid towards Merle. 

"Careful, little one," she said, addressing Mookie but keeping her eyes on Merle.  "There's a monster under this tarp.  Get too close, and it might bite you."

"I'm not scared of no monster!" Mookie declared, slapping the tarp.

Blue light glimmered from beneath the tarp, and a low rumble sounded, like a beast growling in its sleep.  Mookie pulled his hand back, looking shocked.  That was when Merle finally reached him, scooping him up in his arms.

"Well then," said Lady Silverthorn, arching one eyebrow.  "It's very good that your father is looking after you so closely."

The blue light died down. 

"C'mon, Mookie," said Merle, keeping one eye on Silverthorn. 

Mookie looked at the tarp, and down at Beary, who made a concerned whine-chirp.  And he let Merle carry him back down to the ground without complaint.

He was safely back on Beary and patting the creature's feathered neck when he said, in a low voice, "It's real bad, ain't it, pops?"

Merle nodded, feeling suddenly exhausted.  "Yeah, fireball.  Yeah, it is."

His son looked thoughtful.  "We gotta stop it, huh?"

"Yeah," he said.  "We do."

 

#

 

Ozzie was sitting on the lawn of the moon base, watching the stars fall.  She was alone.

"Hey," said Arumdina, approaching with slow, careful steps.  "Um, Ozzie, is it?"

Ozzie glanced over her shoulder and shrieked, scrambling away from her as if Arumdina had just stepped flaming out of the Nine Hells to drag her away.  She drew the dagger at her hip, held it in front of her with shaking claws.  "S-stay away from me!" she said.  "If Magnus finds out, you--"

"Hey, it's okay!"  Arumdina's hands were up in the air.  "I come in peace." 

A moment passed in frozen silence.  Arumdina finally noticed the blades embedded in her own arm greaves, and a blush crept across her nose.  Even with her hands empty, she was still a threat.  "Uh, I can--lemme take these off…"  She fumbled at the catches of the metal greaves.  One by one, they dropped to the lawn.  She felt naked without her blades, but she left them on the ground. 

Ozzie narrowed her eyes.  She still gripped the dagger in her claws.  "What do you want from me?" she squeaked, in a valiant imitation of bravery.

"I just wanna talk," she said, honestly.  "Can we, uh, talk?" 

When Ozzie didn't answer, Arumdina sat down, moving slowly and giving the kobold plenty of space.

"What did you want to talk about?"  Ozzie still stared at her.  She lowered the knife, but she didn't put it away.

Arumdina opened her mouth, but wasn't sure what to say.  She'd been making herself scarce on the moonbase for the past few days, chewing hard on everything Magnus had said to her, and everything Ozzie had said.  She'd tugged on her hair and stomp-paced and punched a wall panel, cursing Davenport for being so damn ignorant of the bad blood between kobolds and gnomes that he'd gone off and _made friends with one!_   And then she'd sat down hard, her body making weird breathing noises while her eyes leaked for a good ten minutes before she realized she was crying, this was what crying felt like.  She felt like her whole world had been pulled out from beneath her, in a way that had nothing to do with the apocalypse.  Garl was gone, and Davenport was gone, and Magnus had told her point-blank that the centuries-old feud between gnomes and kobolds meant nothing anymore, at least here.  Ozzie was Davenport's friend, and Arumdina couldn't hurt his friend.

So she decided to talk.  To find out what the deal was with this particular kobold.  To maybe understand why Garl's emissary did what he did.  She'd even thought about what she wanted to say.  But now that she was _here_ , and this kobold was looking at her, all her carefully-planned words evaporated.

"I just, uh, think we got off on the wrong foot," she said, forcing a smile.  "I'm not really used to having feet, see."

The joke landed between them with a hard thud.  Arumdina cringed.  Leading with a joke to diffuse tension was Garl's area of expertise, not hers.

Ozzie's eyes narrowed further.  "You tried to kill me," she said very quietly.

"Well, yes, but...I thought you were going to hurt my friends.  And you said yourself that I was right!  You were planning to kill Davenport!" 

Ozzie pulled back, the spines along her back laying flat.  The whole line of her body was a compressed spring, ready to bolt.

"But Magnus knew that," Arumdina added, regarding her thoughtfully.  "And if Magnus knew that, then Davenport _definitely_ knew, too."

"Well," said Ozzie, "I never said I was good at it."  Her smile was tiny, nervous.

"Even a bad fighter is still dangerous."  Arumdina frowned.  "So why did he offer you his back?"

Ozzie looked at her, then at her feet.  Slowly, she sat down, giving Arumdina a wide berth.  "He said…he'd rather sing with me, instead of fight."  She tapped the claws of one hand, a steady, nervous rhythm across her knees.  "He wanted to sing."

Arumdina sat back with a sigh.  It wasn't that simple.  It _couldn't be_ that simple.  The kobolds' endless campaign had killed countless gnomes.  The cruel traps, the daggers in the dark, the war that lasted a whole generation of her people, before trailing off into a cold campaign of skirmishes and spite.  Was she supposed to just forget all of that?  "Singing won't stop a war," she said.  "It won't bring anyone back."

“I know,” said Ozzie.  “But I’d rather do that than keep it going.”

Arumdina grimaced, like she’d just been handed a particularly obtuse riddle.  And Garl was nowhere in sight to help her solve it.  She punched the grass at her side.

Ozzie flinched.

“Hey,” said Arumdina.  “I said I wasn’t here to hurt you.  I meant that.”

The kobold stared at her with big yellow eyes.  “But you’re _Arumdina_ ,” she said, her voice high and nervous.  “Garl’s bloody right hand.  His executioner.  Killing kobolds is what you _do._ ”  She buried her muzzle between her knees.  “So yes, I guess I’m a little nervous.”

Arumdina’s jaw dropped.  Sure, she’d killed…well, more kobolds than she could count, but she wasn’t an _executioner_ , or some kind of nightmare terror.  She was a defender, a protector of gnomes, one of the good guys—

Wasn’t she?

She clenched her fists again, wanting to punch something.  Instead, she dug her fingernails into her palm and bit her lip against a scream of frustration.  Ozzie gave her an odd and wary look.

“Damn it,” she said, dragging one hand down her face.  “I don’t know how to do this.  I don’t even know why I’m doing this!  How am I supposed to bury the hatchet, when _I_ _am the hatchet?"_

Ozzie said nothing.

Arumdina picked up one of the golden greaves, with its curving blade.  Even as a gnome, she was dangerous.  “M’sorry, Davenport,” she said.  “I was built for war.  It’s all I know how to do.”

Ozzie made a soft noise in the back of her throat.  Arumdina looked at her again, really _looked_ at her.

“But you weren’t,” she said, surprised at the truth of it. 

“No,” said Ozzie, “n-not really.”

“You…want to be a singer?”

Ozzie seemed to curl up on herself even more.  “Y-yeah…”

“And Davenport was teaching you.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then.”  Arumdina turned this over in her head.  “I…I hope you get to sing with him again.”

Ozzie looked up at her, still wary, like she wasn’t quite sure Arumdina meant what she said.  Heck, even Arumdina wasn’t sure she meant what she said.  It felt more aspirational than a statement of a present truth. 

But still…what was mortal life anyway, but a series of aspirations?  A long and often winding journey towards who they were?  Arumdina was an axe, yeah, but Ozzie wasn’t stuck like her.  Ozzie was a bundle of potential, just like every other person on this moon base and on Faerun, who were fighting to save this world because there was so much left to do, to _become_.

“I really mean it,” said Arumdina, and was surprised to find that this time, she was telling the truth.


	42. Kids These Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hekuba prepares. Mavis makes her choice. Angus has a plan.

Hekuba Roughridge was fifteen years old when she swore fealty to her goddess.  It was a solemn occasion--as most dwarven ceremonies are--but it was also a day of great pride and quiet joy.  For it was the day she swore her duty to the goddess of duty, and forged her bond to the goddess who made sacred all bonds.

That was all Hekuba wanted, really.  Connection, and the purpose that came with it.  It was the bulwark of dwarven society, and if connection and duty were not nurtured, the whole thing would fall apart.  That was what she believed.

So when two of her close friends decided to leave home to become adventurers, well…she decided to go with them.  Branda and Jess might be in it for the glory or the fun of adventuring, but for Hekuba, she went because they were her friends and she wanted to protect them.  And when a fourth joined their party—a short, dimple-faced human wizard with a cheerful façade and a biting wit beneath it, well—Paloma became Hekuba's family too, and worth protecting.  

Looking back, those were the happiest years of her life.  Before loss and heartbreak and impotent, sharp-edged rage; before duty became a millstone around her neck, threatening to drown her.  Before the Relic Wars.

She remembered that night when the four of them had their last meal together.  She and Branda would head home to their clans; fearful that the wars were getting intense, they wanted to be with their families, to hunker down and hold the line.  Their fighter, Jess, wanted to stay in town; she'd made friends in the local underground wrestling league, and thought this might be a good way to make some money and keep in shape without getting her ass killed on the road.  And Paloma, as quietly wise as ever, wanted to retire somewhere quiet, in a little town in the middle of nowhere, where surely the wars couldn't reach her.  She was getting older, then.  Her powers might be as strong as ever, but her body was having trouble keeping up with a hard life on the road.  Humans didn't live as long as dwarves, after all, and weren't half so hardy.

She made them her best scones, as a parting gift. 

Soon, Hekuba was back home with her family.  And not long after, she forgot why it was that she'd come home.

Still, she was here, and young, and eligible.  The matchmaker set her up with a sturdy, reliable silversmith with warm eyes and a quiet demeanor; once again, she celebrated the solemn occasion in the temple of her goddess.  She prayed for a steady and fruitful marriage; she made plans in her head of all the many ways, big and small, she could nurture and protect this most sacred of bonds.

Mavis was six months old when he died.

It astonished her, how _angry_ she was about it.  She'd expected the sobbing and the grief and the loneliness, but not the desire to kick every chair in the house.  To rail at her dead husband for dying in a stupid accident that anyone with a lick of sense could have avoided.  To tell her goddess off for depriving her baby of a father.   

She sobbed into the Stone of Farspeech to Paloma, while Branda rocked Mavis and tried to keep the baby quiet.

"Am I broken?" she asked.  "I shouldn't be this _mad_ at him.  I love him, and he's dead."

"Anger is a part of grief," said Paloma.  "You feel like life kicked you right in the back, and it seems unfair that it happened, and that he should leave you alone to deal with it."

Hekuba wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve.  "I suppose…" she admitted.

"But you're not alone," Paloma insisted.  "We're all here with you, and you've got your big, big family, too.  We're here to help."

She looked up at Branda, who was still rocking Mavis and trying to get her to sleep.  And she realized, yes…this was what these hard-forged bonds were for.  To hold each other up, when times were dark. 

 

#

 

The day after the traditional mourning period was over, Hekuba went straight to her temple and had her name added to the list of eligible single dwarves looking for marriage.  Mavis was a toddler by now, and Hekuba's heart had healed, but she wanted to give her daughter a more stable future than she could provide alone. 

Besides, the time for mourning was over, and she could use some joy in her life again.

And that was what Merle brought her.  He found joy playing silly games with Mavis, or staying up till sunrise debating the finer points of theology with her.  And he found joy in the stillness, too:  he could sit on the beach with her for hours, with Mavis tucked quietly between them, making toddler noises against the sound of the rushing waves.

Her second wedding took place outside, in Pan's domain, and the beach was covered in flowers.  It felt strange to her, almost _unserious_ in its blooming overabundance.  But the head priestess of Berronar Truesilver co-led the ceremony with the head priest of the Pannite temple, and Hekuba was satisfied by this.  A bond could be forged between two very different people.  It was an act of communion, after all.  Of two becoming one.

It wasn't until Mookie was born that the cracks began to show. 

It's one thing to raise a toddler and every so often let her gurgle on her step-dad's lap while Hekuba took a nap once in a while.  It was quite another to have a baby and a toddler in the same household, squalling at all hours, needing their diapers changed, needing constant attention. Merle wanted none of it.  Every chore he did was like pulling teeth, done with a great deal of grumbling on his part and tugging on hers.  Duty was a prison to Merle, not a sacrament. 

And Hekuba saw the supreme irony of her second marriage:  by marrying Merle, she was denying herself the same easy joy that had drawn her to him in the first place.  A household could survive if one parent was irresponsible and carefree and forgetful, but not both.

So she became both parents to her children, while Merle grumbled and took ever-longer walks on the beach.  She told him to get a more secure job; he replied with some big, rambling speech about how endless drudgery kills the joy and spontaneity of life and why should we work our asses off when the beach is so damn beautiful?  And he had the gall to say this while she cradled a squalling baby in her arms and Mavis threw her food onto the floor for the fifth time that day.

She started buying lottery tickets.  She didn't think she could win.  She'd been many things in her life, but never lucky.  But that little ticket stub in her hands gave her permission to imagine a different life:  a big house with servants to do all her work for her, or a ticket on the fancy Rockport Limited to go see one of Jess's shows, or her very own diamond mine in that little town where Paloma had settled.

But she stayed.  Because duty was a sacrament and she would not let her goddess down.  Because this was the life that she had been given, and she would make it work, come hell or highwater. 

So Merle left, instead.

And Hekuba was alone again, now with two children depending on her.

"When's daddy coming home?" Mavis asked her one night, a week after he didn't come back from the store.

"As soon as the sisters from the temple find him," she said.  And then she could wring his neck properly.  In the meantime, she would light a fire fueled by anger and stubbornness and sheer spite, and use that to keep her going.

 

#

 

Mavis sat across from Hekuba now, nursing a hot chocolate.  She'd been home for a few days now, and Hekuba would have liked to say her daughter was recovered from the stress of the road.  But there was a nervous energy to her, a restlessness that kept them both up at night.

Everyone in the clan felt it.  It was a subtle pressure in the air, the knowledge that the world was ending and the sense that it could all break at any moment.  Clan members took turns patrolling the borders of their territory, rationed their dwindling food stores, drew closer together to their families.  A whole community holding its breath.

It was just like the Relic Wars.

Earlier that day, Hekuba had pulled her old paladin gear out of storage.  She polished her warhammer, checked her armor for weak spots, reinforced the padding.  Mavis watched her do all of this in silence.

And now she was sipping hot chocolate while Hekuba polished the crest of their goddess, a pair of intertwined golden rings on the front of her breastplate.

"How are your spell slots?" she asked.  "Did you get enough rest last night?"

Mavis nodded soberly. 

"Good."  The last time death came for her daughter, Hekuba hadn't been able to protect her.  She was glad that Mavis was learning to protect herself, now.  She hoped it would be enough.

"I just think…" Mavis began, then stopped.

Hekuba raised an eyebrow.  She set down her breastplate and picked up her shield next, giving her daughter the space to think and then speak.

"I mean, we're just sitting here, waiting," said Mavis.  "Should we be doing something?"  She paused, thought some more.  "I feel weird saying this, since I was the one who wanted to come home.  I mean, I'm glad I came home.  I wanted to see you, to—to sleep in my own bed again.  But now I…"  She blinked, looked down at her mug.  "I don't know…" she finished.

Hekuba set down her shield, and set her hand over her daughter's.  Hekuba's hand was thick with calluses and covered in scars:  markers of hard work, of a hard life.  "There's no shame in needing a rest between battles," she said.  "Even the best and bravest of us only have so many spell slots.  And sometimes…"  She paused, considering the winding path of her own life.  "Sometimes we need to remind ourselves why we're fighting." 

It had been so easy to keep fighting Merle for so long.  She just had to take one look at her fatherless kids, and that flame inside her kept roaring.  But now the world was ending, and he'd made a go at actually apologizing to her for once.  And maybe she was tired of having her strongest bonds be alloyed with spite and tempered in resentment.

The Stone rang.  It was Jess.  Hekuba put the phone aside, because right now, Mavis needed her attention.

"Why do you fight?" her daughter asked.

Hekuba opened her mouth, thinking that the question was about her and Merle, as it usually was.  But Mavis nodded towards the warhammer, propped up against the wall.

"Because," she said, "it is my duty."  _And doing my duty is how I show my family that I love them._   This last remained unspoken.  But Mavis nodded in understanding; she'd learned enough of the teachings of Berronar to know where her mother stood.

Hekuba checked her Stone.  Jess had left a message.  "Hey, it's me," she began.  "Paloma's pretty sure the tree's gonna be a target.  Thought you and Branda might wanna know.  We think it won't be for another day or so, until the soldiers are all out of sight of the city.  If you're free, we sure could use that hammer of yours.  But I understand if you've got bigger priorities back on the ol' homestead.  I'll just have to take down enough of these cultists for two of us!"

Hekuba set down the stone.  "Mavis," she said. 

"Yeah, mom?"

"The dryads are in danger.  Jess and Paloma are there, and Branda will likely want to go, too.  Think carefully, Mavis.  This won't be an easy battle."

And, to her credit and Hekuba's pride, Mavis did think about it.  And then she said, "Yes.  I want to go."

Hekuba nodded, and gathered up her armor.

 

#

 

When Taako came back home, divine knitting needles in hand, he was braced for more Sad Barry.  Instead, he walked in on Excitable, Caffeinated Barry, frantically waving one arm and pointing to a mug of coffee as if it contained the key to the secrets of the universe.

"It's Davenport!" he sputtered, grabbing Taako by the arm.  "He's in my coffee!"

"Uh…Barold, slow down, my man," he said, carefully extracting himself from his brother-in-law's grip.  "I think you need some sleep."

"Taako, he's telling the truth," came Davenport's voice from the mug.  He sounded like he was speaking through a tunnel.

Taako stared into the mug.  "What the hell?  Is that you, Cap?"

"Yeah, it's me."  The gnome was definitely at the bottom of Barry's cup.  Huh. 

"Listen," said Barry, "we've been getting each other up to speed, but Davenport here says that Angus is in trouble, and—and we gotta find him."

Taako shrugged.  "The kid's fine.  He's like, super smart, even if he went to Loser Miller's loser school for losers.  And he's also the world's greatest detective?  Like, did he tell you that?  Kid can take care of himself.  We're already dealing with the whole Lup sitch."

"Whisper has him," said Davenport.  "The same way he got Lup."

Taako froze.  No way.  No _fucking_ way.

"He's a kid," he said through gritted teeth.  "A literal human baby.  What sick bastard of a god would do that to a _baby?"_

"Well, technically speaking, he's not a literal baby," said Barry.  "But, uh…yeah."

Taako grabbed the cup from Barry's hand.  The liquid at the bottom sloshed a little, but settled back into an image of Davenport.  "Where is he?  Did he say?"

Davenport shook his head.  "I honestly have no idea.  My connection with him was cut off before I could find out."

Taako whirled on his brother-in-law.  "Barry, where is he?  You're a Reaper.  I know you have some sort of ability to track souls or whatever, right?  That's how you got your rings to work."

Barry rubbed his wedding ring.  "Y-yeah, I got it.  Back at the Astral Plane.  Not sure if carrying the mug there will interfere with the connection—"

"Leave me here," said Davenport.  "I'll keep the line open on my end.  And maybe I can figure out a way to connect with a…more stable receiver on your end."

Barry nodded.  A quick scythe-portal later, he and Taako were back in the Astral Plane.  Taako could see, through the window, Kravitz and another Reaper in the distance, trying to keep the restless Astral Sea at bay.  But they'd have to catch up later.  Barry was moving as quickly as his dad bod would allow, through the offices and down a short flight of stairs into a room with a large stone globe hanging in the middle. 

Barry waved his hand and summoned a segment of the Book of the Dead, the massive, too-big-for-reality listing of every mortal soul in the planar system.  He opened to a particular page, pointed, and said "Angus McDonald" out loud.

The globe slowly spun, and a golden dot appeared somewhere in the foothills of the Teeth.

"Well, that's handy," said Taako.  "Why haven't we been using this for Lup?"

"It's, uh, not exactly portable," said Barry, pulling out his scythe.  "The rings were just easier to carry."  He cut a portal, which opened to a space just inside a damp little cave.  Outside the cave, a heavy deluge of rain was soaking the road.

Taako stepped inside.  The place smelled musty and damp, and a chill immediately began soaking through his thin silk shirt.  Barry stepped through beside him, and closed the portal. 

"Yo, Ango!" Taako called into the cave.  Echoes of his voice bounced into its dark interior.  "You in here?"

Silence.

He walked farther in.  "So, uh…"  How much could Whisper hear of Angus's surroundings?  How much was Angus under Whisper’s control, maybe without even being aware of it?  He was a smart kid, but what could he do against a god?  "So we, uh, heard…a little bird told us that you were, uh, kinda stuck somewhere, maybe could use a hand getting out?"

Silence.

"Kid, can you hear me?  I—fuck."  He'd put a hand on the wall and found it coated with a soft, spongy something.  He hoped it was just wet moss and not the trail of some sort of slime monster.  Damn it, if that stupid kid had gotten his ass eaten by a slime monster, Taako would never forgive him.  He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe off his hand, but paused when he saw Istus's fine stitchwork.  He read the words again, and looked out into the darkness.

"Hey, Angus," he said, and hesitated.  "Look, I know I don't…I'm not exactly the protecting type, ya know?  I spent a hundred years worrying only about myself and six other dipshits—"

Barry turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity and confusion, but Taako kept barrelling on because if he stopped now, he'd just lock up again. 

"And everyone already knows that there was only one person who had the guts to try to do the right thing," he continued, "and that was Lup.  And do _not_ try to contradict me, Barry, there was no one else on that ship who tried to stop the wars without driving a knife into her family's back.  And… _fuck_ , the point is, Ango, I'm not good with kids, I'm not good with just…letting other people in, ya know?  And here's this super smart, super good-hearted kid coming out of nowhere when my head wasn't screwed on right, and he’s thinking circles around me and putting his fucking life in danger without even hesitating, all for the sake of doing the right thing, and I—fuck it, Ango, I was _jealous_.  I was jealous, and petty, and I said mean shit to you all the time, even though you kept looking up to me like some kinda devoted puppy.  Just like Magnus, trusting me and insisting I was a good person, even when I wasn't.  And I'm sorry.  It wasn't you, it was all on me.  You deserved better."

Barry was staring at him like a gaping fish.  Taako sniffed.  "Look," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "this is just my way of saying, Angus, I hope you're not dead.  Because the world needs more people like you.  Especially right now."

Silence.  And then, behind him, a soft, bewildered, "Sir?"

He turned.  There was Angus, wearing a dirty, hooded coat the same dark gray as the stone around them.  He pulled down the hood and stared at him.  Taako watched as a whole train of emotions passed over Angus's face:  confusion, wariness, worry, curiosity.  It was like watching a sped-up version of puberty.

"Do you…you really mean all that?" he asked.  "This isn't some…it isn’t one of your goofs, is it?"

Taako raised his hands.  "Nah, no goof, kid.  This is one hundred percent pure, uncut Taako.  I fucked up, and I'm sorry, and…well, I hope you can forgive me—"

Angus threw his arms around him.  "You're forgiven," he said, sniffling.

Taako put his hand on Angus's curls.  His first instinct was to give him three seconds, then smirk and gently push him away and tell him not to get snot all over his couture waistcoat.  But then he shoved that instinct away, and let them both stand there, dabbing at his own tears with his ruffled ascot while Angus's tears soaked into his shirt.  The kid deserved better.  He was going to do better.

"Angus, are you okay?" asked Barry, after a moment.  "You're not hurt or anything?"

"No, no—I'm fine, sir," he said, stepping back from Taako and wiping his eyes on a handkerchief.

Taako frowned.  He wasn't sure how much Whisper could hear them.  "Listen, if you…if you've got something on your mind, you can tell us.  No judgment.  We can…we can help with it."

Angus's eyes widened.  He looked away.  "Don't…don't get mad, okay?  Because I really messed up.  Really, really very badly."

"Angus, we're not mad at you," said Barry.  "Is that why you were hiding?  You thought we were gonna be mad?"

Angus’s shoulders hunched.  "I…I wasn't sure if it was safe.  I was pretty sure he was gone, but…but I goofed badly, and now there's a bunch of powerful weapons out there, and I was afraid you—"  He broke off, looked up at Taako and away again.  "I thought you would just make fun of me for being so stupid," he finished, his voice trailing off into a mumble.

Taako shared a look with Barry.  Okay, that was a fair judgment.  "I'm not gonna make fun of you," he said.  "This is the new, improved Taako you're talking to.  And right now, we need to focus on the 'bunch of powerful weapons' part, because that is a train nobody wants to ride again.  So tell us what happened."

Angus took a deep breath, and unloaded an unexpectedly long tale about mysterious hunches, a search through the Rockport rainforest, being duped by the best swordsmith in Faerun and his cultist buddies, and a caravan of super-swords heading towards a battle.

"That caravan," said Barry in a tight voice.  "The one Lup helped."

"Fuck," said Taako, eloquently summing up this entire situation.

"Why would Lup help them?" asked Angus.  "I know they probably seemed pretty normal from the outside, and at first I thought it was a coincidence when she showed up.  But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed odd that she'd popped right to their location, like she knew where they'd be."

Damn, that kid was perceptive.  Sharp as a box of tacks.  Taako took a deep breath.  "Look," he said, "there's been some…well, a lotta shit's happened while you were out on your little personal sidequest.  And one of those things is that Lup is now working for the god of global war, but not like…not of her own free will."

Angus looked up, eyes wide.

"We think," said Barry, "well, knowing Lup, she'd never work for a being like that unless she felt that the alternative was much worse."

"For example, he might hurt all of you if she doesn't comply?"

Taako's throat tightened.  Barry nodded. 

"It makes sense," he continued, rubbing his chin.  "Lup is a very caring person, who'd do anything to try to protect the people she cares about.  She might even think that she could sabotage Whisper's plans, if she's careful enough."  He shook his head.  "But I don't think that's going to work.  He's very subtle, and he gets in your head--literally and metaphorically.  He could easily convince even the most well-meaning person to do exactly what he wants them to do, and they'll think it's for the best."

Taako felt his heart squeezing in his chest.  Of course that's what Whisper would fucking do.  That's what they themselves did, back when they dropped the Relics into the world.  And Whisper was born from that self-deluding desire.

_Just do this one morally-dubious thing,_ Whisper promised, _and your family will be safe._

Taako opened his mouth to curse that fucking god, and not even care if Whisper heard him, because _fuck him._   But that's when he noticed Angus was smiling.

The world's greatest detective reached back behind a boulder, looking for something.  "If Lup is an emissary of Whisper," he said, pulling out a long, narrow bundle wrapped in oilcloth, "I think I have something that could help."


	43. Honoring Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mavis joins the fray. Davenport does some baking. Kurtulmak gets his revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for battle violence in this chapter.

The cherry tree at the heart of Goldcliff looked half-withered, its fallen leaves and blossoms forming a still layer on top of the fountain.  It squeezed Mavis's heart to see it looking so forlorn.

The fading sunset cast the plaza in a layer of ruddy light.  She scanned the tree, looking for shapes in the shadowed trunk.  There, at the base of the tree, were two familiar forms seemingly carved into the wood, their arms curled around one another.  The tree's withering had formed deep lines in their faces, making them look so old.

"Is that Mavis?" said an old human woman, whose face was as wrinkled as the tree, but who nevertheless exuded life and warmth.  "My, you've gotten so big!"

Mavis blushed.  "Uh, thanks?"

"Paloma, dear," said the woman, giving her a kiss on both cheeks. 

Mavis smiled.  "I've heard mom's stories about you," she said.

"I hope only good things!"

The broad-shouldered dwarf woman next to her stuck out her hand.  "Jess," she said.  "Your mom says you're not too shabby with a wand."

"Well, I'm still learning," said Mavis, blushing.  "But I want to help however I can."

"Stay at the back with Paloma, then.  Us fighters will be in the front."

"So what's the sitch?" asked Branda, slipping on a pair of sturdy-looking gauntlets.  "Spotted any suspicious, punchable faces yet?"

"About three in the alley over by the bank," said Jess in a low voice.  "At least two others, possibly more, across the street.  I don't think they realize they've been spotted."

"Waiting for us to leave?" asked Hekuba.

"Probably."

"Well, that ain't happenin'," said Branda, pulling out her tankard.  Foam was already sloshing at the brim.  She tossed it back and chugged the whole thing.

The others seemed to take this as a signal, because they moved into place without a word.  Jess flexed her arms, muscles bulging; Hekuba slipped her shield over one arm; Paloma gestured Mavis to stand by her at the edge of the fountain.

"Honor your bonds, Mavis," said Hekuba.

Mavis nodded, and turned to the tree.  "Um," she said, not having really prepared for this.  "Thank you for saving my life.  That day.  I'm not sure if you can hear me…"  She squinted at the featureless wooden faces; if they moved in response to her words, it was so slowly that she couldn't percieve it.  "But please allow me to repay the favor, in…in your hour of need."  There.  She hoped that sounded solemn enough.

"Good job, dear," said Paloma.

"Hell yeah!"  Branda clipped the tankard back on her belt, and punched the palm of her hand.  The sound of gauntlet smashing against gauntlet raing like a bell.  "Let's get this party started!"  She turned away from the tree, towards the alley by the bank.  "Hey assholes!  We know you're there!  Come out and face us!"

For a moment, there was dead silence.  And then three figures stepped out of the alley:  a dark elf, a human, and an aarakocra. 

"He's going to start with a classic," said Paloma.

The human pulled out a wand from the sleeve of his dark red robe, and cast Magic Missile.  Jess rolled out of the way of two of them, and Hekuba caught the third with her shield.

The aarakocra charged straight at them, drawing a sword.  The dark elf ran wide, hoping to flank them.  Mavis raised her wand and cast Ray of Frost at the cobblestones in front of the dark elf, hoping to trip them up with an ice slick.  But the magic hiccupped, and a basket of food appeared instead.  Their foot came down right in the basket, and they stumbled forward, hitting the cobblestones with a cry.

"Nice use of Create Food and Water!" said Paloma.  "Very clever."

"I was, uh, going for Ray of Frost," said Mavis, blushing.  She'd been working really hard on that cantrip, but magic was only getting wonkier by the day.

The aarakocra struck then, slamming into Branda.  "All right, finally some action!" she shouted, punching him in the knees.  "Prepare yourself to face the wrath of the Kneecap Brigade!"

"I never agreed to that name!" said Hekuba.  She lifted her warhammer, casting Divine Favor.  The warhammer began to glow with an extra surge of divine power.  She swung it at the wizard, hitting him firmly in the side.  He staggered back, winded.

"Aw, come on!"  Branda took a punch to the face, and brought her foot down on the aarakocra's toes.  "I always come up with the best names and nobody wants 'em!"

"On your left!" said Paloma.

Hekuba swung her attention to the left, raising her shield just in time to catch an arrow as two more cultists emerged from another side street.  This one was a dragonborn with a big axe in his hands, and a halfling woman with a shortbow.  She was fitting another arrow to it.

"Cover me!" said Jess, rushing towards them.  "I got this!"

"The halfling has a point!" said Paloma.  "The dragonborn is all right."

Hekuba cast a Shield of Faith around Jess, deflecting the halfling's arrows, then turned to smash her warhammer into the aarakocra's side.  He finally went down.  The human wizard seemed to hesitate, bereft of his meat shield.  Paloma took advantage of the opening by hitting him with her own Ray of Frost, which struck him in the shoulder.  "I was trying for scones," she said to Mavis, winking.  "Keep an eye on the thief."

She must've meant the dark elf, because said elf had finally recovered enough to get back on their feet.  Mavis tried casting Magic Missile, but only one of the bolts hit. 

"Don't high-five the gnome!" Paloma boomed suddenly, in a deep unearthly voice.

The sudden prophecy startled Mavis so much that she almost dropped her wand. The dark elf drew a knife from their belt, pulled back, and threw.  Mavis was still reeling from the words "High five" that all she could think to cast was Mage Hand, which—through a stroke of pure luck—managed to catch the knife.

"Uh, I don't see any gnomes here," said Branda, casting a buff on Hekuba just as she brought her warhammer into the human wizard's knees.  "Just a buncha low-level cultist chumps!" she added, as the wizard hit the ground. 

They might be low-level, but so was Mavis.  The dark elf gave her a strange smile, took a step back, and seemed to vanish into the shadows at the edge of the plaza.  The last of the sunlight cast the plaza into spots of warm orange and squares of deep blue shadow, making it hard to see anything.  Too dim to see by daylight, too light to see by darkvision. 

On the other side of the street, Jess had summoned her axe and was fighting toe to toe with the dragonborn.  Hekuba saw it and must have seen something in the way it was playing out, because she shouted, "Jess!  His left side's weak!"

Jess swung around her position and brought her axe down into his left shoulder.  "Thanks!" she called as he went down.  "Ugh, that one's a gusher."

The halfling woman had stepped back to give herself room to draw another arrow, but instead pulled a concealed knife from her boot and lunged at Jess.  Jess reacted a split second too late, and the halfling caught her in her arm.

Branda had stepped back, her previous fervor fading.  She was looking into the middle distance, a puzzled look on her face.  "Huh," she said.

Hekuba frowned.  "What is it?"

Branda shook her head.  "I keep feeling surges of…some sort of divine power," she said.  "Can't tell where it's coming from."

"Is someone casting a ritual?"

Jess swung her axe, relieving the halfling woman of her bow and also her head.

Branda straightened.  "There it is again!  It's like…"  She looked at the four downed cultists.  "Every time we take someone out—"

"Everyone!" said Paloma suddenly.  "Don't kill any more—"

"Mavis!" the tree screamed.

She saw the dark elf coming, like it was happening in slow motion.  She saw them, leaping like a black cat from the pool of shadow at her side, silver dagger catching the last of the fading sunlight.  She thought, _This is how I'm going to die._

And then her mother's warhammer slammed into the cultist’s head, knocking them back to the pavement with a sickening snap of bone.  They didn't move.

A wave of power ran under the cobblestones, so strong this time that even Mavis felt it.

"Ooooh boy," said Branda, her voice faint.

All five of them backed towards the tree, weapons drawn.  Hekuba pulled the hammer free from the dark elf's skull and moved in front of Mavis.  Mavis could feel the stored energy in her wand crackling erratically.      

A small figure was walking down the street towards them, dressed in dark robes the color of dried blood.  He was muttering to himself, gaze fixed on the ground in front of him.  He didn't seem to notice them.

"There's the gnome," said Jess.

"…and let this plaza be a battlefield in your name," said the gnome, finally close enough that Mavis could hear him.  "Let these warriors, from all corners of the world, be the nations at war, in your name.  Let the tree they fight over be a Grand Relic, in your name."  He stopped, and slowly lifted his face to look at them.  His small body practically vibrated with the power he was channeling.  He was smiling.  "Let this be a sacrifice in your name!"

He raised one hand above his head, and shouted something in a language that made Mavis's ears hurt.  All at once, the power building up in the earth burst upward and swirled around the gnome, in a vortex of hot, crackling wind.

"Let this power be your power!" he shrieked.  "From your divine arsenal, I draw forth the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet!"

The hot wind intensified, baking the whole plaza.  Mavis stepped back, gasping for breath.  Sweat trickled down her forehead.  A flash of light made her wince.  When she looked up again, the gnome's hand was sheathed in a black metal gauntlet, a cloud of bright flame swirling around it.

He grinned at them like a kid on Candlenights.

"Oh shit," said Branda.

"That…that ain't possible, is it?" said Jess.  "That can't actually _be_ the Gauntlet?" 

"They don't have the Light," said Paloma, her voice quiet.  "Whatever he just summoned, is merely a fraction of a true Grand Relic."  She looked down at the cobblestones, as if contemplating them for a moment, then looked up.  "He cannot glass this place, do not worry about that.  But he can still do much harm.  And he's about to go aggro.  So."

"Maaan," said Jess, hefting her axe, "I really hate it when my battles are used as rituals to summon the power of evil war gods."

Hekuba gave her an odd look.  "Is that a thing that happens to you often?"

"Here he comes!" shouted Mavis, as the gnome broke into a run.

Branda cast a Shield of Faith around all of them.  The gnome punched the air in front of him, and a giant hand of fire slammed against the barrier. 

Mavis felt the magic shudder, and give way.  The flaming hand grazed Branda on the shoulder and nearly crashed down on Hekuba, who scrambled out of the way, pushing Mavis along with her.

"The tree!  Watch the tree!" Paloma shouted.  They only had a few seconds' warning before the gnome struck again, slamming hard into Hekuba and completely knocking her over. 

"Mom!"  Mavis ran to her, already reaching for one of the dozen healing potions attached to her belt.

A scream rose behind her—loud, eerie, high-pitched but with a deep echo underneath it.  Like wood straining right before it snaps.  She looked up.

One of the tree's branches had caught on fire.

Between the roots, the two figures were moving now—trying to get up, but too badly withered to escape, even if they could. 

Paloma shouted a spell, and the very water of the fountain rose up around them, sending a deluge over the tree.  The fire went out with a hiss of steam, and the remaining water tumbled down again, some of it back into the fountain basin but a lot of it splashing over the cobblestones.

Sloane and Hurley sagged heavily against the trunk.  Their features were more visible now, their expressions pained.

"That fucker," Jess growled.  "He's going down!"  And she bullrushed right at him, dodging and weaving to avoid his strikes, aiming to come up under his guard.

Mavis didn't see what happened after that.  Hekuba waved her away and she shifted her focus, carrying her potions back to Hurley and Sloane.  They held each other tightly, Sloane with her face in Hurley's crown of fading leaves.

"Here," she said, handing each of them a bottle.  "I, uh, don't know exactly how dryad physiology works, but these potions should still help."

Sloane gave her a weak smile.  "I remember you," she said.  "Mavis.  Merle’s daughter, when the Hunger…"

"Yeah, that's me.  And I'm here to repay the favor."

Hurley downed the potion in one gulp, and wiped her lips.  The fading leaves on her head perked up again.  "Thanks, but you really shouldn't be here," she said.  "I don't think either of us would want you to get hurt because you think you owe us anything."

Mavis blushed.  Logically, she knew she was still just a kid.  But it still annoyed her when adults insisted on reminding her.  "Youth never stopped Caleb Cleveland from doing what was right," she said. 

Sloane gave Hurley a bemused smile.  "Not unlike a certain world's greatest detective," she said. 

Hurley looked up at Sloane and then at Mavis, then shrugged.  "All right, objection withdrawn.  Just be careful, okay?"

"Heads up!" Paloma shouted.  Everyone ducked as Jess came sailing overhead, her armor trailing smoke, and slammed into the branches of the tree.  Hekuba snarled and ran at the gnome, Branda shouting buffs behind her. 

She couldn't even reach him.  A flaming fist, nearly as large as Hekuba, came straight down on her, knocking her to the ground.  The gnome, head thrown back in laughter, lifted the fist and aimed a blow straight at the tree.  Branda was charging at him now, both fists raised, and in that split second, Mavis didn't know who would strike their target first.

She raised her wand.  Hurley and Sloane extended their arms.  She shouted a word that was half spell, half prayer.  The world exploded.

 

#

 

Three months ago, she was sitting in the office of the high priestess of Berronar Truesilver.  The old dwarven woman regarded Mavis with that peculiar look of concern that adults reserved for children they were about to give a Talk to.

"Mavis," she said.  "You're a sharp girl.  I just want to be clear that—"

"You think I want to pray to Berronar to bring my parents back together."

The high priestess had sighed, looking both irritated at the interruption and relieved that she didn't have to dance around the topic.  "It's not uncommon, for children in…your situation…to want to dedicate themselves to this temple, in the hopes that their service will move Berronar to reunite their parents.  But this isn't how it works.  I do not wish to see you disappointed."

Mavis took a deep breath, and forced a smile.  "I don't expect my parents to get back together," she said.  "It wasn't good for either of them.  But I can still love both of them.  Those are the bonds I want to honor."

She thought that she must've sounded mature enough for the priestess, and not at all mortified that she'd been effectively called into the principal's office to have her awkward family situation put under a microscope.  She was very proud of how her voice had barely shaken at all.

Still, the conversation dragged behind her when she finally left the office, and it continued to be a weight in the weeks to come, as she went through her lessons on the lore and doctrines of Berronar.  She couldn't help but feel like a fake, an imposter.  What business did a girl from a broken household have, worshipping the goddess of marriage?  She said she loved her parents equally, but she hadn't even told her dad about her decision yet.  It felt too much like choosing sides.

But then the world started to die.  And it was scary, and bad things kept happening, and every day the world was a little worse than it had been the day before.  But all she saw were people coming together to try to fix things.  People who kept their inns open for weary travelers, people holding the dam together.  Just like when the Hunger attacked, and Hurley and Sloane had stepped out of their tree to save her. 

There were a million ways that bonds showed themselves in the world, a million ways to connect one heart with another.  And no matter how bad things got, she trusted in that power completely.  It had powered the Starblaster.  It had already saved her world once, and uncountable other worlds besides.  When everyone came together, the possibilities were limitless.

So when she raised her wand to the flaming fist aiming for the tree, and when Hurley and Sloane moved behind her, she realized, _this is why I chose Berronar_.  Because the bonds between people were sacred, no matter what form they took, and she would protect them with the whole of her being.

The recoil knocked her back, straight into Hurley.  The brilliance of her spell temporarily blinded her.  As the ringing in her ears faded, she heard crumbling cobblestones, a rumble of churning dirt, and the soft hiss of steam.

"Well," said Paloma, as the noise died down.  "That was something."

"We've…never done that before," said Sloane, her voice faint.  "I was just trying to knock him back with some vines."

Mavis cracked open her eyes.  The road had been completely transformed.  It was now a wide path of roots and vines, dotted with young fruiting trees.  Their branches were heavy with apples and lemons and oranges.  A stand of blackberry bushes poured out of a side alley.  All of them were dripping with water, as if a rainstorm had just come and gone.  And in the middle of all this growth, the gnome lay face down and unmoving, steam rising gently from his body.

Mavis looked at her wand.  "I was trying to cast Ray of Frost," she said.

"Looks like you cast Create Food and Water instead," said Paloma, a wry little smile on her wrinkled face.  "Only it combined with the dryads' attack to create…something wholly new."

Mavis stared at her wand.  "I didn't—mom!"  She dashed towards her mother's crumpled, still-smoking form.  "Mom, are you okay?"  She knelt down beside her, and pulled off her battered, scorched helmet.  "Please don't be dead, please don't be dead--!"

Hekuba groaned, breathing deeply.  There was a burn mark on her cheek.  Mavis fumbled for another healing potion, unstoppered the cork, and poured it into her mother's mouth. 

Hekuba swallowed it down, and gasped.  The wound on her cheek closed up.  She smiled up at Mavis.  "No, I'm not dying on you," she said.  "Not after I told your father not to."

Mavis smiled.

The gnome groaned.  Whatever spell he'd been channeling was gone now; the fake gauntlet had vanished, and his hand was badly burned. 

"Well," said Branda, nudging him with a toe.  "Looks like he's still alive.  Whaddaya say?"

Hurley stepped out of the fountain.  "I say, it's time we got some answers."

 

#

 

Davenport peered into the open door of the halflings' communal cottage.  He knew that leaving the door open was a silent invitation of welcome, but it still felt weird to trespass in another's home without announcing himself.  So he compromised, leaning in through the doorframe and calling, "Hello?  Is Cyrrollalee in?"

"In the kitchen," said Yondalla, who was in the front sitting room, watering a few dozen potted plants.  She hooked a thumb towards the back of the cottage.

Davenport murmured a thanks and found the kitchen easily enough.  Cyrrollalee was standing over an enormous cast-iron soup pot, stirring it with a wooden spoon.  She smiled and waved him in.  "Sweet evening to you, Davenport," she said.  "What a lovely surprise, a visit from you!" 

Davenport was, as usual, so caught off-guard by the sincere friendship she radiated that he almost forgot why he was here.  The halfling goddess was a walking cuddle pile, who didn't so much dismantle his walls as encourage him to dismantle them himself. 

Which was exactly the skill he needed right now.

The situation on Faerun was worse than he'd realized.  He needed to get the gods to remember who they were, ASAP.  And the thing that seemed to help most was strengthening their bonds.   

"Hey, Cyrrollalee," he said, feeling suddenly and unaccountably shy in her presence.  He cleared his throat.  "I, uh, was wondering—I—I think I could use your advice.  A question.  If anyone in town knows the answer, it would be you, I think."

"Well, of course I'd be glad to help!" she said.  "Fire away, dear, I'm listening."  She sipped a spoonful of the soup, tossed in more salt and a handful of herbs, stirred and sipped again.

Davenport cleared his throat.  "If I, say, wanted to build a friendship with someone, very quickly, what's the fastest way to do it?"

"Oh dear," she said.  "Friendship isn't really a thing that should be rushed.  It takes time to build trust, to get to know each other.  But that's also the joy of it!  So why deprive yourself of that joy by rushing through the best part?"

He sighed.  "I know, I—I get that.  But what if I…"  He scrambled to think of another way to phrase this that would make sense to her.  "Say I already have a friendship with someone, but I want to—to really push it to the next level.  Not, like, sexual or anything," he added quickly, feeling his cheeks redden.  "But to, to deepen the friendship, but I don't have a lot of time."

"All friendships take time," she said.  "But…I suppose you could always do something kind for them.  I find making food for my friends to be an excellent way to grow close!  It shows effort, consideration, thoughtfulness towards their needs, a desire to share.  And eating together is a wonderful bonding experience!"

Davenport's eyes widened.  "Taako's taco," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

He shook his head.  "Nothing, I—I just think that's a really good idea!"  But what to make?  He didn't know how to make tacos, and moreover, he didn't think they'd spark the same connection here anyway.  He needed to make something that was meaningful to Garl.  That connected the two of them.

He looked up at Cyrrollalee.  "I, uh, don't suppose you'd have the ingredients on hand for blueberry ginger scones?"

Cyrrollalee chuckled.  "Of course, my bright one!"  She pulled a spare apron from a peg on the wall, and tossed it to him.  "Now, wash your hands in the basin, and let's get started."

 

#

 

Cyrrollalee stayed on hand to walk him through the steps, but most of the work was done by Davenport.  Cyrrollalee insisted on that.  "If you wish it to be a gift from you to your friends," she said, "it's best if it comes from you."

He agreed, even if the task was daunting.  He wasn't a great cook, and early in the century he'd had his share of kitchen disasters.  By the end of the century, he'd managed to pick up a few basic recipes out of necessity, mainly how to make passable stews.  Anything beyond that, well…usually it required some divine nudging on Garl's part.

He chuckled, thinking back to Lup and Taako's various attempts to teach him:  the burned steaks, the lumpy muffins, the pasta added in at the wrong time ("No, my dude—ya gotta boil the pasta separately first, not toss it in dry!" "Well if I was supposed to do that, why didn't the recipe specify?!").  And then the day he finally got it right.  He still remembered Lup taking a sip of his beef stew, and both her eyebrows lifting.  "Hey," she'd said, "this isn't half bad!"

His thoughts drifted from there to the uncountable shared meals on the Starblaster, in the warm communal kitchen-dining space that always felt sacrosanct.  The crew might drift to separate parts of the ship to do their jobs, but the kitchen always pulled them back again like a magnet.  Shared food, shared conversation.  Shared bonds.

"Excellent," she said.  "Just like that."

"Hmm?"  He looked up from the bowl of dough he'd been carefully working with his hands, trying not to overmix it.  "Is this, uh…how is this looking?"

She laughed.  "It's looking fine.  But I was talking about your attitude.  You're thinking of good times with your family."  She winked.  "That's how the love gets baked in."

He worked to evenly mix in the blueberries.  He always thought claims of "love" being an ingredient in any cooking were hokey and a bit saccharine.  But when Cyrrollalee said it, he was tempted to believe her.

He wondered what would happen if he ran a bond analyzer over two bowls of dough, one prepared while thinking about loved ones, and another prepared while thinking neutral thoughts, like…math equations or something.  Maybe he could rope Barry into the experiment, when he got out. 

If he got out.

"All right, my bright one," she said.  "Into the ice box to chill!  And then we bake."

He slid the bowl in, right where she directed him.  "Do you think it'll work?" he muttered, more to himself. 

"In time," she said.

 

#

 

He was beginning to have second thoughts, carrying the basket of freshly-made scones back to Garl's house.  He was taking a gamble here, and he had no idea if it would actually do anything. 

In the living room, Flandal and Gaerdal were scratching their heads, staring at Urdlen’s cage.  “I told you we should have reinforced the bottom,” said Gaerdal.

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as the saying goes,” said Flandal.  “It could be anywhere by now.”

Davenport did a double-take.  Urdlen was gone, and there was a giant hole in the bottom of his cage.  And a tunnel leading straight down into the earth.  “Oh shit.”

“You’re telling me,” Gaerdal grumbled.  “We need to get everyone together and form a search party.”

“Does Garl know?”

Gaerdal rolled his eyes.  “He wants to finish out the hand first.  I’m telling you, every minute that _thing_ is loose, the bigger a headache it’ll be!”

Davenport hefted his basket.  “I’m on it,” he said, and headed into the sitting room.  The sooner he restored his god’s memories, the better.  Then Garl could use his god-powers to take care of this whole mess.  They'd figure it all out together.

Garl was exactly where he'd left him, at the card table, playing a round of poker with Pan, Istus, and the Raven Queen in order to celebrate their successful connection with the Prime.  "Ah, there you are, Davenport!" he said, looking up from his hand.  "Care to join us for a round?"

"Uh…maybe?"  He set the basket down on the edge of the table.  "But first, I…uh…made you something.   A snack.  For all of you."

The Raven Queen looked up, a puzzled frown on her face.  She'd been quiet ever since she'd seen Barry through the emerald lens. 

"Rad!" said Pan, pulling back the little cloth.  "Mmm, smells wicked delicious!"  He picked up a scone, turned it over in his hands.

Istus took one as well, a bemused smile on her face.  Then she took another, and set it in front of the Raven Queen.

"Well," said Garl, "don't mind if I do!"  He picked up a scone. 

Davenport took one as well.  "Uh, cheers?" he said, holding it out like a glass raised in a toast.

Garl raised an eyebrow.  "All right," he said, "cheers!"  He tapped his scone to Davenport's.

And then they took a bite.

Davenport honestly wasn't sure what to expect.  But he definitely didn't expect a blast of light from Istus, and a sound like the whole world resonating on a single pure note.  He shielded his eyes, and when the light faded, he stood blinking.

"Whooooaa," said Pan, staring at the half-eaten scone in his hands.

The Raven Queen slammed her hands on the table and stood up, her chair clattering to the floor.  _"We have been deceived!"_ she cried, and her voice was like the shriek of a thousand ravens, filling the house.  Beside her, Istus's eyes were glowing white, and her hair shimmered in iridescent colors.  She stood perfectly still, staring at some far-off point.

But it was Garl who held Davenport's attention.  He held the scone with golden fingers, regarding it with softly glimmering jewel-eyes.  "Huh," he said.  He looked up at Davenport, and smiled.  "You did it."

Davenport staggered back, relief turning his knees to jelly.  "That was it, wasn't it?" he said, running his fingers through his hair.  "You sent me that recipe.  You knew it would be the key!"

Garl tilted his head.  "Huh?  You mean, that…?"  He chuckled.  "No, my boy!  It was just a very good recipe, and…"  He patted his pockets absently.  "I didn't have a quill on me at the time.  You, uh, _did_ write it down, didn't you?"

"Yeah," said Davenport.  "Yeah, I did."

He beamed.  "Excellent.  I—"

_"GAAAARL GLITTERGOLD!!"_

Davenport had a split second to recognize Kurtulmak's voice, to hear the door crashing open behind him, but not enough time to react.  And then something smacked into him, and he was falling—he saw the dagger point sticking through his chest, and thought, distantly, _I wonder why it doesn't hurt_.

And then he hit the ground, and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: the scene of Hekuba, Paloma, Jess, and Mavis protecting Hurley and Sloane's tree from cultists was one of my earliest ideas when I first started planning this fic, before I even wrote the first word. Branda came into my headspace later, but once I realized she'd be sticking around in this story, naturally she wasn't going to be left out of this battle. And I am so glad I'm finally able to share it with you! I love all the Competent Women of Balance (which would be a great idea for a calendar, btw), and having them be friends and do cool stuff together is one of the many joys of writing fanfic :)
> 
> As for Davenport, well...tune in next week, because spit's about to hit the fan! Secrets will be revealed, old feuds will resurface, and many cans of worms will be opened. 
> 
> Also, while I'm here, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's been following along in this massive undertaking of a story ^.^ I don't always respond to all the comments, but know that I'm reading them and that they mean the world to me. I never expected the Emissary Dav stuff to get its hooks as deeply into me as it has, let alone the larger space of D&D deities and those who work for them, but all of you who show up and leave kudos and comments keep me going. Thank you.


	44. The War of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Istus calls a time-out. Kurtulmak demands answers. Garl tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for fantasy violence in this chapter.

He was woken from sleep by the metallic bang of a hammer against an anvil.  He heard other things, too, in the distance: explosions and shouting, the clang of weapons.  He wanted to go back to sleep.

"He's awake," said a gentle voice.  "Come on, Davenport, get up."

He cracked his eyes open.  Segojan Earthcaller peered down at him.  He wasn't sure how he felt about that.  Segojan was the closest the gnome pantheon had to an actual healer.  But he was also the god of the gnomish dead.   

"M'm I dead?" he mumbled, slurring the words with a still-sleepy tongue.  His whole body felt like it had forgotten how to move.  Like he'd just woken from the most relaxing sleep of his life, and his body refused to get up.

Segojan gave him a wan smile.  "Not quite," he said.  "Garl just put you somewhere safe, so we could get you out of the house undetected."

He looked down at his chest.  There was no dagger-wound he could see, no injury at all.

 _Because the dagger didn't strike me,_ he realized.  The impact he'd felt had been Garl's hand, shoving him out of the way.  Davenport had hit the floor, looking _up_ at a false version of himself that the dagger had struck instead.  Garl must've cast Misdirect, which would have rendered him—the actual, real Davenport—invisible.

But what he remembered happening next didn't make sense.  He'd been vaguely aware of shouting, fighting, furniture being toppled—and then Flandal had picked him up and put him in his pocket, and fled the house.

"Wait," said Davenport, as awareness flooded back into him.  " _Wait_.  Did Garl…transform me?"

"Back into your jewel form, yes," said Segojan.  "All gnome souls are born from jewels.  Most gnomes don't remember that part of their existence.  But the soul remembers."

Davenport was already getting to his feet.  "Okay, good to know," he said, compartmentalizing that bit of lore to deal with later.  Right now, the town was literally on fire.

He was standing on the roof of the clocktower.  Garl was nowhere to be seen, but the rest of the gnome pantheon were gathered here.  Flandal was working furiously, beating out lengths of chain that seemed to be manifesting from the point where his hammer struck a large anvil.  Gaerdal stood vigilant at the edge of the roof, a large shield at his side, watching the chaos below him.  Istus stood in the center of the roof, glowing eyes wide open.

And below them, in the streets, utter chaos reigned.  Tiamat was wrestling with Io, the two dragons heedlessly knocking down buildings left and right.  Tempus and the Red Knight were trying to take on Garagos, whose six scimitar-wielding arms were a blur of steel.  A giant spider that could only be Lolth was jabbing at a shimmering mist that kept swirling around her, taking different forms:  now a dancing sword, now a silver eagle.  That had to be Corellon, the ever-shifting god of the elves.

"What…what happened?" he asked.

Gaerdal snorted.  "Everyone remembered who they were.  The rest was predictable."

"It's all falling apart," said Istus, her voice barely audible over the tumult.  Her fingers worked quickly at a shimmering weave of light between her hands, barely visible—a ghost of a scarf.  She wasn’t knitting, but moving quickly down its length as if counting rows, trying to find a certain point.

Davenport squinted against the smoke pouring up from various small fires around town.  There was a huge hole in the front of Garl's house, where the front door used to be.  The halflings' farmhouse next door was still whole, but Taimat's giant back foot had landed in their vegetable garden and Cyrrollalee was swatting at said foot with a broom, clearly incensed at the oblivious rudeness being displayed.  Yondalla came out of nowhere and drove a short sword into Tiamat's ankle, causing three of the dragon's five heads to rear back and scream in anger, spitting various breath weapons in random directions.  A puddle of acid landed on the town hall, and lightning grazed the dark metal shell of Primus, who crackled and spit smoke and kept floating back and forth, yelling "Illogical!  Illogical!  Abort/Retry/Fail?"

The sheer power of the gods, all being flung about with no restraint, caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up.  He shuddered.

"Heads up!" Gaerdal shouted, as somebody decided to call a storm of burning hailstones from the sky.  He lunged in front of Davenport, raising his shield.  "Damn it," he grunted, as the stones knocked against the shield and fell to either side of them.  "The one mortal in the whole place, and it's my job to keep him in one piece!"

"I, uh, appreciate it."

"Just try not to die on my watch, all right?"

The hailstorm stopped.  And then the ground began to shake.  Davenport grabbed onto Gaerdal's arm to hold himself steady.  The cobblestones in the central plaza began to buck and heave.

"Wait," he said, "is that--?"

Urdlen burst screaming up from the plaza, a pillar of white claws and spite, its giant steel claws raking the sky.  Its head cleared the height of the clocktower; its flared nose swept back and forth, scenting for prey.  It turned towards the roof, and raised a massive claw.

“Damn it," said Gaerdal, hunkering down behind his shield.  "Incoming!"

And then an equally giant creature of golden fur leapt up from the ground behind the mole, and slammed into him hard.  It was a massive aurumvorax, with eight viciously-clawed paws and golden fur that rippled and shone in the firelight.  Four of its upper legs grappled Urdlen around the shoulders; its back claws dug deep into the ground, tearing up cobblestones as it leaned its weight forward and shoved the mole back from the tower.  "Oh no you don't," it growled in a deep but familiar voice.

Davenport blinked.  _"Garl?!"_

The aurumvorax's giant, depthlessly black eyes turned to look at him.  "Oh hello, Davenport!" he boomed, showing giant white fangs as he grinned.  "Good to see you up and about."

He couldn't stop staring at this monstrously giant auromvorax, wrestling Urdlen like a kaiju in the middle of the street.  "I, uh…didn't know you could do that?!"

The grin grew even bigger.  Garl punched Urdlen in the snout, causing the mole to let loose an ear-piercing squeal, like metal shrieking against metal.  "Well, like I said," and he waved two of his six forepaws, "I'm never unarmed!"

Gaerdal slapped his forehead and groaned.

Urdlen leapt forward, head down, and slammed back into Garl’s chest, pushing him backwards.  Garl only barely managed to shift his footing in time to not crash into the tower.  "Flandal!" he roared.  "Hurry up with those chains!"

"Working on it!"  More chains flowed from the space between hammer and anvil, landing in a pile that was nearly as tall as he was.  "Why did you even let that monster stay in the pantheon in the first place?!"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?"

Flandal sighed.  He made a complicated gesture with one hand, and the chain broke off.  "All yours!"

Garl punched Urdlen a couple more times, shoving the mole backwards and giving himself a little space.  He craned his neck down and scooped up the entire pile of chains into his muzzle. 

"You'll want to stand back," said Flandal, clapping a hand on Davenport's shoulder and gently guiding him away from the edge of the roof.

Garl arched his neck and spat out the chains, straight at Urdlen.  They were now coated in molten gold, and seemed to move with a mind of their own, looping around the giant mole and binding its limbs to its sides.  Garl gestured with two of his paws, and the chains tightened, dragging Urdlen down to the ground and pinning it there.

"Well," said Gaerdal, "that's one problem taken care of.  And what do we do about the rest of it?"

"Oh come now, don't be such a grump!"  Garl swung his huge furry snout in the direction of the roof.  "We just need a good ol' party grenade."

"That's your solution to everything!"

"It's never failed me yeeeaaaaaaugh!"  He twisted in place suddenly, arching his neck around to try to look at his backside.  Clinging like a flea to the fur between his shoulderblades was a very determined Kurtulmak.  He was gripping the hilt of a sword he'd just driven into Garl's backside.  He pulled it free to try to strike again.

Garl spun in place once, and the aurumvorax form shifted and dissipated before the blade could land.  And then the two of them both fell to the shattered cobblestones below.

"Oh great," said Gaerdal.  "Here we go again."

Davenport ran back to the edge of the roof to watch them, uncertain what he should do, or if he should do anything.  He was an ant between boulders.  But there was his god, trading punches and kicks with the god of kobolds, just one more fight in the midst of many fights which had been going on since only the gods knew when.  Kurtulmak landed a fierce kick right in Garl's ribs, sending him through the one remaining brick wall that had once been the tavern.  Garl struggled to pull himself out of the rubble, but wasn't able to get free before Kurtulmak leapt straight at him, diving down with his short sword for a blow aimed straight at his chest.  But the sword shattered against brick, and the illusory Garl disappeared, only for another Garl--the real one, possibly, but who could tell?--came up from behind him and threw a cherry pie in his face.  The pie exploded on impact, sending a singed and infuriated Kurtulmak sailing through the air as Garl darted away again.

Davenport became aware that Istus had moved to stand beside him.  "What can we do to stop this?" he asked.

She looked down at him, and her eyes were full of sorrow and sympathy.  "This is our battle," she said.  "You are only here to bear witness."  And then she raised both hands into the air above her head, the shimmering weave held between them.  "STOP." 

The single word reverberated through the entire town.  Davenport felt his whole body stiffening as time slowed and then froze completely.  He tried to turn his head to say something to Istus, but he couldn't move.  Strangely, he was still conscious.  He could still _think_.  But all physical motion around him had ceased, including the other gods.

Istus stepped off the edge of the roof and hovered in the air above the town's plaza, pale iridescent hair waving in a breeze that wasn't there.  "The Raven Queen is correct," she said, and her voice filled every corner of their small, enclosed world.  "We have been deceived.  Manipulated.  And trapped, in a prison built by our own choices."  Slowly, she drifted down to the cobblestones.

She snapped her fingers, and Davenport was standing beside her, free from the time-freeze.  He took a deep gasping breath.

"I suppose this is where you explain everything?" he asked.

The corner of her mouth twitched in a smile.  "As much as I can," she said.  The smile vanished, as quickly as it had come.  "I wish we could lay all the blame at Whisper's feet.  But he is excellent at what he does, and that is to stoke the fires that are already there, and convince everybody that the ensuing fight was their own idea." 

She gazed out at the town square that had become a battlefield.  One wall of the town hall hung suspended in mid-fall; frozen fires glimmered like delicate glass sculptures.  "After the Day of Story and Song, the world was…different.  Kinder.  More united.  Conflicts were few, and local, and easily resolved.  Naturally, this weakened Whisper's power quite a bit.  He is a god of a very specific thing, and the world was rejecting it."  She frowned.  "So he came to us instead.  After all, we gods are always fighting.  Our existence is the push and pull of opposing forces:  good and evil, life and death, order and chaos.  He offered us a deal:  a weapon that could finally allow all the gods of good to defeat the gods of evil.  Not destroy them, but to simply…end their power.  Not all of us wished to take such an extreme step, but enough of us did.  Enough of us thought that this could finally end all the conflicts that have defined us for so long."

She waved a hand, loosening both Io and Tiamat from the time-freeze.  The two dragons disengaged, each watching the other with wary eyes.  "But he came to the gods of evil with a similar offer," said Istus.  "Didn't he, Tiamat?"

Tiamat tossed her red head, snorting a gout of flame from her nostrils, though it was more a gesture of annoyance than a threat.  "He did," she growled.  "Promised us a weapon that could finally trap all you goody-two-shoes gods, and finally get you out of our business."

A deep rumble sounded from Io's throat.  "So.  Because the mortals had tired of fighting, he tried to start a war among the gods instead."

"And he made himself a weapons dealer to both sides," said Istus. 

"That snake!" Tiamat hissed.  "I'd laud him for his cleverness if I weren't so furious!"

"And so we come to this," said Istus.  "Both sides fired their weapons simultaneously.  One weapon to de-power its targets, and the other to trap them.  Instead, the weapons…combined, somehow, forming Ruin:  a superweapon that could do both.  And in one move, the celestial battlefield was completely emptied."

Davenport frowned.  "Wait," he said.  "If he was trying to start a war between the gods, why trap all of you instead?  Filling in the sudden power vacuum in your absense is a far riskier move than, say, winding up a celestial war machine and letting it run indefinitely."

Istus shrugged.  "Perhaps he didn't know that the two weapons would react the way they did.  Perhaps he suspected, but wasn't certain.  Either way, he would win."

"You mean, he _has_ won," said Tiamat's green head.  "He's trapped us all in here, playing House in this stupid, saccharine town, while _he_ has the run of the celestial planes and the Prime, as well!"

"There's still time to stop him," said Davenport.  "I wouldn't count out my crew just yet."

Tiamat's black head snaked towards him, her muzzle so close that his nostrils stung with the scent of acid.  "You are overbold, mortal," she growled.  "Just because your crew was lucky with the Hunger, do not presume to think that you can stop a god, or speak to our business."

Istus held up a hand to stay Tiamat.  "Listen, he has a point.  We're not out of the game yet.  We just need to put aside our differences and work together to get out of here."  She waved her hands, and time unfroze, slowly at first and then catching up to real-time.  One by one, the gods began to move again.  They pulled away from their fights, resheathing their weapons and all turning to look at Istus.  In the distance, the half-destroyed town hall continued its slow crumbling to the ground.

"Ya know," said Pan, "I always did think it was kinda weird that I didn't need to pray to anyone to refresh my spells.  They just…came back, ya know?  Did anyone else notice that?" 

"I think there were a lot of things we weren't noticing," Tempus grumbled.

"Your HOA secretary is literally nicknamed Deus Ex Machina," Davenport remarked.  He gestured to the faintly glowing mechanical box that hovered nearby, desultorily trying to pile bricks back into a semblance of a wall.  "'God out of the machine'?"

"I am a god of order," said Primus, in their monotonous voice.  "I thought.  All this time.  That Deus ex Machina was metaphorical.  I thought I was just really good.  At showing up at the last minute.  And using my superior logic.  To arrive at the perfect solution.  Which makes everyone happy.  And they are all impressed.  And perhaps a little envious.  That their fragile meat brains.  Were not able to deduce.  The solution which only I could provide."  He paused, computing.  "That would be pretty badass.  Can I still do that?"

"Uh, sure?" said Davenport.  "As long as you get the timing right, I suppose."

"My timing is impeccable," said Primus.

"We were all ignorant of our true natures," Io boomed.  "Nevertheless, we understand clearly now.  And Whisper must be stopped.  We must issue a formal rebuke for his actions."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the gathered gods.  Davenport looked at all of them, then at Io.  "A rebuke?  That's it?"

Cyrrollalee gasped.  "Oh, don’t say that!" she said.  "A divine rebuke is quite a harsh sentence."

"It's no less than he deserves," said Tiamat.

"Then it is agreed," said Io.  "We will work together to--"

She was interrupted by a loud thump and a surprised cry from Garl, who hit the ground.  "I refuse!" Kurtulmak screamed.

"Kurtulmak…" Io began, the warning clear in his voice.

But the kobold god was unfazed.  "Why should I work with any of you?!  You're all self-important bastards who think they can get away with anything just because someone slapped a 'good' label on them!  Like him!"  He pointed a claw at Garl, who was rubbing his cheek.  "He's a murderer and a cheat, and you all call him 'good' because you think his stupid japes are funny!  And then the rest of us get shoved into the 'evil' box for demanding some sort of justice!"

Garl wiped his mouth.  "Justice?!" he snarled, leaping to his feet.  "You were the one who goaded your entire people to make endless war on mine!  How was that justice?"

"It was no less than you deserved!  You were always so jealous and petty, you couldn't stand to think that my people could be just as clever as your silly little sheep!  You couldn't stand to think that my skill could exceed yours, so you destroyed my greatest creation and killed me for it, just because you couldn't stand the competition!"

"Murder you?!" Garl snapped.  "You were the one who was trying to kill me and my friends!  If you want to brag about your skill, maybe it's your own damn fault for building a trap that you could be killed by!"

"Lies!  Lies and slander!"  Kurtulmak stomped the ground.  "You were the one who started this!  It's all your fault, everything is _your fault--"_

"You spiteful, scale-faced bucket of regurgitated slugs, _you_ were the one who started it!"

Davenport whirled towards Istus and Pan, who were staring at this with resignation and shock, respectively.  "Lord Pan, Lady Istus—I'd like to request a Zone of Truth.  We're doing an intervention.  Right now."

Pan smiled.  "Right on, man!  I cast Zone of Truth!"

Davenport wondered, briefly, what it was with everyone wanting to declare their spells upon casting.  But a shimmering bubble of green-gold light surrounded Garl and Kurtulmak, who didn't stop yelling at each other.

"All right," he said, wading into the zone.  "You two need to stop right now, so we can figure out what the hell actually happened.  Now, I'm no Angus McDonald--"

"I love that kid!" shouted one of the dragon gods, whose name Davenport couldn't remember.

"Er, right.  But I've heard both sides of this story and it doesn't line up.  So we're getting to the bottom of this."

Kurtulmak glared at him, eyes narrowing.  "Didn't I already kill you?"

"That's not the point, man," said Pan, stepping into the zone as well.  He set a hand on Kurtulmak’s shoulder, and another on Garl’s.  "Have a seat, and we'll talk it out, okay?" 

Garl gave Davenport a warning look, but he sat down.  "Fine," he said. 

"Fine," Kurtulmak snarled, and sat down, too.  "Garl killed me.  You all know he did it.  I'd spent a whole century building a palace the likes of which none of you have ever seen!  It was a new wonder of the world, one that would put kobolds on the map as a race to be respected.  And then Garl came and tore out the cornerstone and brought the whole thing down on my head!  That's what happened."

Garl frowned.  He looked at Pan.  "So I did," he said.  "And I attest that it was in self-defense.  He invited dozens of gods to come see this palace that he'd built.  I just so happened to arrive early, before anyone else.  What can I say?"  He shrugged.  "I’ve always enjoyed fine and extravagant craftsmanship, no matter who produces it.  I was curious."

Kurtulmak snarled.  "Curious?  More like jealous."

Pan raised a hand.  "This is the time for facts, man, not accusations.  Garl, continue."

Garl sighed, shaking his head.  "When I arrived," he said, "I realized quickly that the whole thing was a trap.  The cornerstone was the trigger.  It was loose, not mortared in properly, and all it would take would be for Kurtulmak to pull it out of place.  And the whole thing would come tumbling down, right on top of all his 'guests.'"

"That's a lie!" Kurtulmak snarled.  "My creation was perfect, without flaw!  It was perfectly stable until you tore it out!"

"I know what I saw, Kurtulmak," said Garl.  "That cornerstone was loose!  It was the trigger for the trap you built!"

"It wasn’t a trigger!”

Garl hesitated, but only for a breath.  “Then why did you invite only your enemies to see it?  Why not Tiamat, or Asmodeus?  Hmm?"

Kurtulmak's eyes narrowed.  "Because I wanted to rub your faces in it," he growled.  "I wanted to make you all grovel, to make you squirm, to make you regret ever looking down on me!"

The air between the two of them felt charged, like the whole zone of truth was a bottle of lightning. 

"Kurtulmak," said Pan, "did you plan to attack the gods?"

Kurtulmak's eyes wouldn't leave Garl's.  "No," he said.

Garl was silent.

Davenport stepped closer, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he drew close to the angry gods.  "There was no trap?”

"The only ‘trap’ was a puzzle-lock on the front doors," he growled.  "I wasn't going to collapse my masterwork.  Not after all that time I spent on it!  I just wanted to keep all you stuck-up assholes inside long enough to make you grovel."  He frowned, baring his fangs.  "But it doesn't matter anyway!  Garl still killed me out of petty jealousy before anyone else even showed up!"

Davenport heard one of the gnomes, Gaerdal possibly, swearing loudly from the crowd outside the zone.  Garl, however, remained silent.  "Garl, you said the cornerstone was loose, correct?"  That much had to be true.  He doubted anyone could resist a Zone of Truth cast by Pan himself.

He nodded.  "That's correct,” he said, his tone as steady as a brick wall.

"Kurtulmak.  Is it possible," he said, very carefully, "that there was a flaw in your construction that you didn't notice?"

The kobold looked about ready to get up and try to stab him all over again.  But he looked away instead, eyes narrowed.  "Y-yesss," he growled, as if the word were pulled from him against his will.

"So.”  Davenport took a deep breath.  “Is it possible, then, that Garl came to the palace, saw the loose cornerstone, mistook it for a lethal trap and then—proceeded to do what Garl always does when someone tries to spring a trap on him?  Not out of jealousy or spite, but in an attempt to protect himself and his friends?"

Kurtulmak snorted.  "Even if that's true, that still means that I was wrongfully murdered!  I'm the victim here!"

"That may be so," said Istus.  "Garl misjudged the situation, and you suffered for it."

Garl said nothing.

Istus glanced at him, then turned her gaze back on Kurtulmak.  "But you bear the responsibility for what happened next," she said.  "Io, how did Kurtulmak ascend to godhood?"

The platinum dragon drew closer, his brilliant light making Davenport wince.  "As Kurtulmak lay dying beneath the rubble, I saw his great strength of will," boomed the dragon.  "I offered him a choice.  I could heal him, and give him the strength to rebuild his great palace, and let it be a testament to the skill and ingenuity of kobolds; or I could grant him a place among the gods, to be a defender and champion of his people, though the palace would remain buried forever.  He chose the latter."

"And you took that gift," said Istus, "and used it to goad your people into war.  Not to defend them, not to raise them up, but to smash them against the gnomish people.  Garl may have killed you unfairly, Kurtulmak.  But the war that consumed and wasted your people afterwards is laid at your feet."

"What I do with my people is mine to decide!"

Garl slowly got to his feet.  "Let it go, Istus," he said.  "The war is over.  It was based on a petty misunderstanding and a terrible mistake.  But it's over now.  If Kurtulmak wants me to apologize for killing him, then fine.  I'm sorry.  I truly am."

The zone fell silent.  Kurtulmak and Garl stared at each other.  For once, Davenport felt like he knew exactly what his god was thinking.  Garl’s people had warred with the kobolds for centuries because of a single fateful decision he'd made.  Right or wrong, now he was wondering how it would have gone if he'd done something differently.  It was a guilt that Davenport knew all too well.

"Well, I think that really clears the air," Pan said, clapping his hands together.  "Now that we all know what really happened, I think it would be good for both of you to wrap things up with a statement looking towards the future.  And then we can end with a good hug—"

Kurtulmak's eyes narrowed.  "Stonehollow," he spat.

Garl's eyes widened.

"Explain to me that, Garl Glittergold," the kobold went on, rising to his feet.  He waved a clawed hand.  "Oh, everyone here thinks you're good, that your japes are amusing and your wrath always just and your mistakes well-intentioned.  But _explain to me Stonehollow,_ Garl Glittergold!  When you violated celestial law and slew your own people as well as mine!  When you slew even the innocents huddled in their meager homes!  And yet you still dare to prance around and call yourself _good!"_

The Raven Queen drew herself up.  "That is enough, Kurtulmak.  We already adjudicated this crime, hundreds of years ago, and Garl has served his sentence for it."

"I am not satisfied," Kurtulmak hissed.  "His punishment was nothing more than house arrest, a slap on the wrist!  It was not _adequate._ "

Pan held up a hand.  "Listen, I don't think—"

"No," said Garl, "Pan, it's all right."  He met Kurtulmak's yellow eyes.  He was preternaturally calm.  "What I said about Stonehollow, in court all those years ago…I stand by my words, Kurtulmak.  I take full responsibility.  I wanted the war to end.  But what happened was…inexcusable."

Kurtulmak's glare only sharpened.  "What _happened_ was inexcusable?!" he snapped.  "What _you did_ was inexcusable!  Own it, Garl Glittergold!"

"But I didn't do it!" Garl snapped back.  And then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth.

There was a brief pause as everyone present seemed to suck in a breath they didn't need.

Kurtulmak stared.  Pan’s jaw dropped.  It was the Raven Queen who drew herself up and announced, "That's impossible.  It must have been you.  It was your divine power detected on the battlefield.  And no mortal could have wielded such power on your behalf.  Their physical frames could not bear the sheer magnitude of it."

Her words jolted a foggy memory in the back of Davenport's head.  Arumdina's warning to him at the gulch.  The feeling of Garl's power filling him up, threatening to overflow—more power than he could bear--

"An emissary could do it," he said, the words surprising him as they came out of his mouth.  Several gods turned to stare at him, standing in the middle of the zone of truth.  "If they wielded a divine artifact of Garl's.  If they…broke the rules."

Garl lowered his hand.  He looked devastated.  "It was—I take full responsibility for—"

"If not you, then who?"  Kurtulmak jabbed a claw in his direction.  "Tell me now, so I know who I need to destroy!"

Garl took a deep breath, and forced a big grin.  "You know, it's a really lovely day today, and I think we've come a long way towards becoming better friends!  But I think it's high time we wrapped this up—"

"Garl Glittergold!"  Kurtulmak grabbed him by the wrist.  "Tell me who it was!"

"It doesn't matter!" he snarled back, ripping his wrist free.  "She's dead now, okay?!  She did it without my permission, and she died in the act!"  A shadow of old pain passed over his face.  "She's dead," he said, more quietly.  He sounded so tired.  "I said I take full responsibility.  You've been wanting to get back at me for centuries.  But you couldn't.  You were never smart enough, you were never strong enough.  So you went after my people instead.  Well?"  He spread his arms wide.  "Now's your chance.  If you must be angry, be angry at me, and _only me_.  And let that be an end to the matter.  Does that satisfy you?"

For a long moment, there was silence.  Kurtulmak glared at Garl, jaw clenched, teeth bared, and there was so much hatred in his eyes that it hurt Davenport to look at him.  And then he raised a claw, and slashed Garl across the face.

Garl didn't dodge, didn't block.  There was only resignation as he staggered backward, shimmering blood like molten gold welling up across his face.

Something clattered to the ground at Pan's feet; he stumbled back, lifting his hooves to avoid being splattered with Garl's blood.  Kurtulmak crossed the space, picked up the object and held it up to the sun.  It was one of Garl's jewel-eyes, still glittering.  He tucked it into a pocket.  "It's done," he said, and stalked away.

"It is witnessed," said Io.

Davenport had a strange feeling that something had just passed between the gods that he couldn't see.  Garl got to his feet again, one hand pressed against the side of his face.  And then he smiled at Davenport, as if he'd just gotten the better end of whatever deal had just occurred. 

"Well," he said, "this has been lovely.  Flandal, you're my voice in the jailbreak planning.  Do let me know how it turns out."  And he, too, walked briskly away, heading towards his half-ruined house.  He whistled as he went.

"…What the fuck just happened?" asked Davenport. 

"It's over," Flandal said with a grunt.  "Leave it at that."

Davenport looked around the gathering, still reeling with everything that had just transpired.  A thousand new questions fluttered up into his throat.  He turned to follow Garl back to the house.

Istus frowned.  "Davenport," she said, setting a hand on his shoulder.  The sensation sent goosebumps down his spine and up to the crown of his head.  She gave him an odd look, as if he were the puzzle that needed to be worked out.  "You shouldn't be here."

He looked around, the lone mortal in a land of gods.  "Ah yeah, about that," he said.  "Ruin got to me.  I don't think it was supposed to.  But I…carried so much of Garl's power, I think I attracted its attention—"

"No, I mean…"  She hesitated.  "Davenport, someone has altered your fate."

He stared up at her.  He didn't know what she saw in her vast tapestry.  He certainly didn't feel like something was off.  Well, other than losing his ability to express joy.  "Magnus?" he suggested.  "His time powers, they were unlocked and--"

She shook her head.  "No, he could not do this.  It was not done by any divine gift of mine."  She regarded him a moment more, then shook her head.  "We will discuss this later.  Go to him now.  He needs you, and you deserve to know the truth."

He didn't need to ask what she meant.  He nodded, and went to go find Garl.


	45. Stonehollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, there are just decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning in this chapter for battlefield violence, death, grief.

There was a hole where the door used to be.  Davenport found the shattered splinters just inside the living room, beside the hole in the floor where Urdlen had made his escape.  The living room furniture was scattered and broken, and claw marks raked the patterned wallpaper.

Garl was there, snapping a fancy eyepatch into place and admiring his new look in the mirror over the mantlepiece.  He was humming a jaunty air.

"Ah, there you are, Davenport!"  He turned and struck a pose.  "What do you think of my roguish new look?"

"Why did you let him do that?" he asked.

"Kind of pirate-y, I know.  But nothing like a good aesthetic upgrade once in a while!  I'm sure you can appreciate that."

"After centuries of fighting for so long," he continued, keeping his voice level, "after all your people have gone through, you just…let him have the final say?  I mean, I get the whole sacrifice-your-pride-to-save-your-crew thing, but--"

"And if I ever get tired of the look, it'll take me all of two minutes to carve myself a new eyeball.  No biggie.  Maybe I'll go full dichromatic next time!  One emerald, one ruby."

"Is this some sort of setup for a prank?  I'd say this seems unlike you, but…"  Davenport hesitated, sighed.  "I feel like I don't really now you at all."

Garl paused, for just a breath, glancing at Davenport over his shoulder.  "And Kurtulmak doesn't know me either," he said, more quietly now.  "But I know him.  He's very predictable.  I knew he'd take the deal."  He flashed a small, crooked grin.  "Didn't expect things to go that way, did you?"

Well, that was true.  Garl's path always had been full of unexpected turnings.  "So.  You give up an eye, and in exchange…?"

Garl tapped the side of his nose.  "Something I've wanted for a very long time.  And Io to ensure he delivers."  He sighed.  "An eye is a small price to pay, all things considered."

"Stonehollow."  The word tumbled out of him, seemed to hang in the air between them.  Davenport almost wished that he could stuff it back in his mouth and swallow it down.  But he couldn't, so it remained, half-question and half-accusation.

Garl said nothing. 

He angled away from that headwind, tried a different tack.  "What was she like?" he asked instead.

Garl chuckled.  "You would have liked her, I think.  She was so clever.  One of my finest." 

Davenport sat down on the couch, moving slowly, as if his god were an illusion that would vanish if startled.  "What happened?"

The silence stretched for so long that he began to wonder if he would get an answer at all.  But then Garl shook his head.  "When Kurtulmak died," he said, "I honestly didn't waste another moment thinking about him.  You were right:  I did what I always do when someone tries to trap me.  I hoist them by their own petard, laugh at their folly, and go my merry way."  He shrugged.  "But it wasn't so simple this time, was it?  Kurtulmak became a god, and crawled his way out of that wreckage, and turned the kobold race to the singular goal of eradicating my people."

Of course.  The only way Kurtulmak could ever hope to destroy Garl was to destroy everyone who followed him.  But most gnomes followed Garl in some manner.  Even the ones that served others on the pantheon still gave some homage to Garl.  His presence was woven so deeply into their culture, into their holidays, into the way they approached life.

Garl gave a short, bitter laugh.  "I thought it was nothing, at first.  Kobolds can be dangerously clever but they're not strong, and I had faith that my people could give back tenfold whatever those skulking lizards threw at them."  He frowned.  "But they kept coming, endlessly, motivated by religious devotion, by fear, sometimes by plain spite.  And my people, who had survived so long by avoiding fights, began to seek them out.  They built devastating war machines, laid claim to territory taken from the kobolds, turned their own warrens into arms factories.  And the war kept going." 

Garl paced the living room as he talked, and the room began to change around him.  The walls grew tall and stony, the coffee table expanded into a vast banquet table, banners unrolled from the ceiling beams.  The windows opened up to a view of the Golden Hills. 

They were back in Brighthall. 

"You say you don't know me, Davenport," he continued, his steps slowing to a steady, grim march.  "But if you want to know me, look to your fellow gnomes.  I am only a reflection of what they want, what they ask me to be.  And what they came to want, back then, was a warrior."

Brighthall began to change.  The banners grew more stark in color, the windows were barred with iron, and the space began to fill with the hum and churn of distant engines.  And Garl's outfit of colorful silks disappeared beneath a suit of golden armor.

Davenport had seen this before.  On a previous cycle, he had met a Garl at war.  But even that Brighthall hadn't been nearly so fortified, so _cold,_ as this one. 

Garl reached his destination, a heavy oak chair behind the empty banquet table.  He sat down and leaned his chin on one fist, staring out at the hall in glum silence.

"Garl?"  He crossed the room to his god's side, but Garl didn't respond.  He didn't even seem to notice Davenport's presence.

A little box sat on the table in front of him, gears whirring.  From a delicate brass cone in its side, a pleasant artificial voice chirped, "Incoming prayer for Garl the Victorious."

Garl said nothing.

"Incoming prayer for Garl the Ever-Watchful.  Incoming prayer for Garl the Victorious.  Incoming prayer for Kurtulmak's Bane."

"Kurtulmak's Bane?" said a familiar voice.  Arumdina lay propped up against the side of the throne.  "That's a new one!  I kinda dig it."

Garl grunted.

"Someone's in a foul mood today," she remarked.  "Hey, how about we just pop down to the Prime and knock a few kobolds into their own pit-trap?  That oughta cheer you up!"

Garl's frown deepened.  "And then what?" he finally said.  "Do the same thing tomorrow?  And the day after that?  And the day after _that?"_

"Well--I mean ideally, they--"

"It's never going to stop, Arumdina!" he snapped.  "What's the point of all this?  This war has consumed my people, and to what end?  _They're_ miserable, _I'm_ miserable, everybody's miserable all the time!"

"Incoming prayer for Garl, the Doom of Kobolds--"

He grabbed the box and threw it down the table.  It landed hard, its wooden sides cracking.  It rolled to a stop at the far end, shedding parts as it went. 

For a long moment, there was silence.  Garl dragged one hand down his face. 

In a quavering voice of squeaking gears, the box groaned, "Incooooming prrrayer…."

He sighed.

"…fooorrr Garl the Joker…"

He looked up in shock. 

The box was silent.

He leapt onto the table and ran down its length, heedlessly kicking aside plates and goblets and silverware, lunging into a belly-side that ended with his hands clasped around the broken prayer-receiver.  "Accept, accept!" he said into the little cone.  "Play that last one."

Through the exposed side, gears shuddered and clicked.  "Prayer received from…"  And then a high, half-whispered voice.  "Pennyful Gladrill Whisperina Wizgilly Spinnerbee."

A gemstone set into the box's side projected an image of a young gnome girl, with wild brown curls and dirt on her nose.  She was looking around uncertainly.  "Um, so…this is my first prank ever.  And I'm dedicating it to Garl the Joker, and, um, I hope it goes well?"  She shrugged, and gave a wincing smile.  "Please, please let it go well!"

Garl sat up, one hand on his mouth.  His eyes glittered softly.  "Of course, my little one," he said.  "I'll see to it personally."

"Garl?" said Arumdina.  "Are you--"

He leapt to his feet and brushed aside the air as if it were a curtain.  Reality parted, and he stepped through into the sky.  Davenport, still watching this illusion play out, stumbled backwards as the environment shifted.  He found himself sitting in a field of red and yellow daisies.  Not far above him, Garl was floating in the air beside a tree.  Arumdina was strapped to his back, and his armor was gone, replaced once again with bright silks in many colors.  He was grinning at a little gnome girl, who was very slowly picking her way up into the tree's higher branches.  Pennyful.  A large and bulbous bundle was strapped to her back.

"Aww, look at her, Arumdina!" said Garl, slowly turning a somersault in the air.  He landed on his stomach, chin propped up on his hands.  "She's adorable!"

"Okay, she _is_ cute," Arumdina admitted.  "She's awfully high up, though."

"Oh, she'll be fine!"

Pennyful paused, shifting the weight of her bundle, slowly reaching up for another branch.  It snapped in her hand, and she fell.

Garl grabbed at something in the air.  A branch snagged onto the strap of her bundle and caught her.  Her legs swung freely and she gasped, flailing her arms around to try to find something to grab onto.  She found another branch, swung herself up, and sat there catching her breath.

Garl smiled.  "See?  Told ya so!"  He held a bundle of golden threads in his hand, extending from his grip to the branch that had caught her.

Davenport sighed in relief.  Of course Pennyful would be fine, with Garl the Joker manipulating her luck.

He stood up, trying to get a better look from the base of the tree, and stumbled aside again as a baby aurumvorax came snuffling up to him.  It placed its front paws on the trunk, looked up at the girl, and whined.

"It's…huff…it's okay, Dusty!" she called down to him.  "I'm okay!" 

The aurumvorax made a querulous noise, as if he didn't quite believe her.  She looked around, and nodded.  "Okay," she said.  "Step one, climb tree.  Check.  Now, step two!"  She slid the bundle off her back and unwrapped it, revealing a large net bulging with water balloons.  She set to work with it, anchoring it to various branches, so it hung out of sight but directly above the path that ran alongside the tree.  Not far from the spot, Davenport could see a group of young gnome children, about Pennyful's age, kicking around a ball and laughing.  He guessed they must be the target.

Pennyful tied off the last corner of the net with a slip knot.  Then she settled onto the base of a sturdy branch, the tail end of the rope held loosely in her hands.  The whole setup would come undone with a single quick tug. 

"Step two, ready the payload.  Check!" she said.  "And now, step three.  We wait."  She said this with a child's gravitas.  She tapped a quartz pendant that hung from her neck.  The quartz flashed briefly, and she disappeared behind a basic invisibility spell.

The illusory memory began to speed up.  The aurumvorax curled up for a nap in the shade of some nearby bushes; the other gnome children continued their game, now at double-time.  Davenport crouched and waited, expecting them to come into range.

But instead an older, sour-faced gnome with a long grey beard came storming up the path.  He wore long, heavy burgundy robes and a cap trimmed with fine dark fur and feathers.  The memory slowed to real-time.  He hefted his iron-tipped cane at the kids.  "What are you doing out here?" he demanded.  "You should be training!  Where's your drill sergeant?"

The children stopped playing to stare at the old gnome, their faces a mix of guilt, frustration, and wariness.  One of the older kids found himself standing at the front of the pack.  "It's a training exercise, Mr. Irontooth, sir," he lied.  The others murmured in agreement.

The old gnome glowered.  "Looks like no training exercise I know of," he said, approaching to scoop up the ball.  "Looks like a bunch of do-nothings slacking off!"  The ball shimmered in his hands, transforming into the severed head of a kobold.  "Here's your training exercise!  Kick this around instead."  He tossed the illusioned ball into their midst.  The kids cried out in shock, leaping away from the grisly thing.  At least two of them burst into tears.

"I thought so," he grumbled.  "You're all too soft and weak!  Well, don't blame me when the kobolds come rushing over the hills, and you all get run through on spears!"  He turned away from them and returned to the path.  "Back to the warren, all of you!  And I'm going to have words with your drill sergeant--"

The water balloons dropped right on top of him.

The children screamed and scattered, laughing as they went.  Irontooth sputtered and railed, shaking his cane at them, looking around for his culprit.  But Pennyful was still invisible, and his now-sodden hat had fallen into his eyes.  And Garl was laughing, bent over and slapping his knee in delight.

Davenport watched as Irontooth finally tore his hat off his head and stormed away, muttering darkly to himself.  Only when he was way out of sight did Pennyful pop back into view, both her hands slapped over her mouth, face red as she desperately tried to hold back her laughter.

"Oh my Garl," she said, "it worked!  Dusty, it worked!" 

The aurumvorax poked its head out of the bushes and opened its mouth in a rather dog-like grin. 

"Wow," she said.  "Wow!  Didja see the look on his face?  It was all…"  She pulled her face into deep mock frown.  " _Grrr,_ stop having fun!  _Grrrr!_ " 

"Ha!  He was exactly like that!"  Garl rolled over in another bout of snorting laughter.  "Hahaha!"

Pennyful nearly leapt from the branch in shock.  She grabbed it to hold herself steady.  "Who is that?  Who's there?"

Garl paused, regarding her with a thoughtful look.  "You can hear me, little one?"

"Uh…y-yes?"  She was looking around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice.

He manifested, landing gently on the end of the branch.  "Good," he said.  "That makes things much easier."

She stared at him, blinking.  "Are you… _Garl Glittergold?"_

"And clever, too!  How delightful!"  He did a little flip and landed in a one-handed handstand.  "And you must be Pennyful Gladrill Whisperina Wizgilly Spinnerbee.  I got your message."  He winked.  "It was a delightful prank, by the way.  I can hardly believe it's your first!  Good ingenuity, excellent use of surprise and distraction, _and_ a very grumpy meanface walked away with soggy underpants!"  He gave her a thumbs-up with his free hand, then flipped back upright.  

She blinked again, rubbing her eyes.  "Wow," she said, "I can't…I can't believe…I…where have you _been?"_   And she burst into tears.

Garl took a step back, startled.  "Little one, I...I've been right here!"

"Then why are you letting this happen?" Pennyful cried.  "With the war, and Old Man Irontooth and the rest of them, and we're not even allowed to play games anymore and even the little ones have to practice fighting in school, and the warrens smell like coal and steel all the time, even the gardens and kitchens taste like ashes, and everyone's miserable!"

He knelt down on the branch in front of her.  All trace of joy was gone from him.  "Little one…I'm sorry," he said.  "I don't want the war any more than you do.  I want my people to know joy!  To spent their time doing pranks and building weird contraptions for the fun of it and laughing till their sides ache.  I've told them so a thousand times, in a thousand ways."  He sighed, shaking his head.  "But they're not listening to me anymore.  They don't want to hear about Garl the Joker.  They want…"  He frowned.  "Garl the Victorious."

Pennyful sniffed.  She wouldn't look at him.

He pulled his face into a mock-frown.  _"Gaaaarl, stop having fun!  Garrrrl!"_

She snorted.  The corner of her mouth twitched in an almost-smile.

He drew closer, patted her on the shoulder.  "There, there," he said.  "I'm here.  I promise."

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she mumbled, "I'd tell them.  I'd make 'em listen."

The silence stretched on for a long moment. 

"You would do that?" Garl asked.

"Yeah!  And if they didn't listen, I'd drop water balloons on them so everyone else could laugh!  Just like Old Man Soggybottom!"

Garl picked her up, and leapt from the tree.  She cried out in surprise, but the two of them gently floated to the flower field below, and settled not far from where Davenport stood.  Dusty came out of the bushes to sniff at Garl's feet.

"Listen close, my little Pennyful," said Garl, setting her down among the red and yellow daisies.  "Will you go to the others, to your family and your warren and all the warrens of Faerun, and tell them about me?  Will you be my emissary, and teach them to find their joy again?  Think carefully, because these are hard and dangerous times, and this will not be an easy task."

She sniffled, wiping her nose again.  "Yeah," she said.  "Yeah, I will."

He smiled warmly at her.  Kneeling in the field, he plucked a red daisy and enclosed it between his hands.  When he opened them again, the flower had been transformed into a sparkling brooch, each petal a carved ruby set in gold.  "Then it's official," he said, clipping it into her hair.  She shivered, the contact running between them like lightning.  

"I name you my emissary," said Garl, as the afternoon sun bathed the whole meadow in soft golden light.  "My mirthful one….My Dairwin."

 

#

 

Davenport sat down hard on the grass.  The illusion vanished, blown away like so much dandelion fluff on the wind.  "Dairwin…" he said, his voice dry.  "That was her?"

Garl stood in the center of the living room, arms folded across his chest, gaze focused on the place where the little girl had been standing just a moment before.  "Ah, so you've met her."

He nodded.  "After you went missing, a few of us went up to Brighthall to look for clues.  Arumdina…introduced us," he said, "but she was, ah, evasive about who or what Dairwin actually was."

Garl shook his head.  "She _was_ my emissary, once upon a time," he said.  "No doubt you sensed your connection to her."

Davenport nodded.  "I didn't think--I mean, I figured she was connected to you, somehow.  But she's not…"  He hesitated, not sure what to say next.  "That's not…normal for an emissary, is it?  What _happened?"_

"A great deal."  Garl sighed and sat down on the window seat, looking out at the torn-up front yard.  "Like I said, she was one of my finest.  She took my message to the warrens.  And though it took some time and convincing, she did gather a small and growing following, dedicated to restoring joy to our people and returning me to my earlier aspect as the Joker." 

Images flashed over the window, as if it were some sort of screen:  Dairwin flooding a Garlite temple with illusory red and yellow daisies as stunned, armored priests stared slack-jawed; Dairwin, older now, speaking to a crowd; Dairwin and Dusty traveling with a group of gnomes in gold-embellished garb, trading jokes and laughing; the group weaving ridiculous illusions to scare a troop of kobolds away from a warren, without having to draw a single weapon.

"It went on like this for years," he said, "a slow and steady progress.  Until…"  The window shifted to show the smoking ruin of a warren.  And Dairwin appeared in the middle of the living room, staring at the image, as if she'd just turned a corner and spotted it.  Slowly, she lifted her hand to her mouth.   

Davenport's throat tightened.  He knew that look so, so well.  "Her family," he said.

Garl nodded.  "Her plan would've worked, if they'd listened to her.  The illusions surrounding her warren didn't fail.  But Old Man Irontooth managed to rile up a small mob and sent them out to face the kobolds.  The fools gave away their position."  He frowned.  "Turns out, the slimy bastard had been making quite a pretty fortune selling weapons to his fellows.  I'd have smote him myself, if he hadn't been killed with all the rest."

Dairwin's face hardened.  She stared at the floor, fists clenched at her sides.  The living room shimmered, and she was standing in Brighthall before Garl's chair.

"I want to go to the front," she said.  Her voice was flat and cold.

"Dairwin," said Garl, "I do not think that is a wise course of action."

She looked away, eyes squeezing shut.  "This is taking too long," she said.  "I thought, if we could just--I thought it would _work_ ," she said.  Tears glistened on her cheeks.  "But they keep coming!"

"It _is_ working," said Garl.  "Dairwin, you've brought safety and peace to plenty of places!  I understand the grief you feel.  It is my grief, too.  But you must have faith that you are on the right path--"

"It's not enough!" she snapped.  "This war needs to end.  Once and for all.  I'm going to the front."

"And then what?"  Garl's words were quiet, but still seemed to fill the hall.

She looked away.  Tugged on a curl.  "I don't know," she said.  "I'll--I'll figure something out when I get there.  There has to be _something_ I can do."

Garl was silent for a long time. 

Davenport couldn't pinpoint the exact moment of change, but it seemed that the god of gnomes hardened in place, as if he were turning to stone.  As if the last spark of brightness, of joy, had fled from him.  The Joker was gone.

"I cannot stop you," he said, slowly getting to his feet.  He moved towards her, his steps slow and ponderous.  "But I can give you some help."  Drawing Arumdina from his back, he held out the axe to her.

Dairwin's eyes widened.  "Arumdina?"

"Hey, kiddo," said Arumdina.

Garl nodded.  "Keep each other safe," he said, handing his best friend over to his most beloved.  "And bring her safely back to me."  He did not clarify which one he gave this order to.

Dairwin bowed.  Garl did not smile.

A cloud of dust rolled through the hall.  When Davenport could see again, he was standing in a stony valley hemmed in on all sides by high, rough cliffs.  A troop of armored gnomes rushed past him, wielding short swords and spears.  Towards the center of the bowl-shaped valley, gnome forces were clashing with kobolds in a vicious battle.  Far on the other side, crude fortifications had been set up around a small kobold village, which had grown outward from the caves in the shadow of the cliffs.

Dairwin ran past him and ducked behind a boulder as a crude grenade exploded behind her.  Dusty was at her heels, golden fur muted by dirt and soot.  She clutched Arumdina to her chest.  Dusty whined, setting one paw on her knee.

"I know," she said.

"What's the plan here?" asked Arumdina.  "Because we can't just hide here for the whole battle."

"I know, I know!  I don't know what to do, though!"  She peered around the boulder.  "I tried an Illusory Terrain, they just ignored it!"

"Their leaders probably have some sort of True-Sight artifacts.  And if they tell their troops to keep moving forward, they'll keep moving forward."

"Like that big blue one right there?"  She pointed to a particularly tall kobold in spiked black armor who was shouting orders and waving a large mace. 

"Yeah, he's probably the leader here.  If we take him out, the kobolds under him will scatter.  Even if he has a strong enough second-in-command to take over, it'll take time to get organized again."

Dairwin took a deep breath, brushing a stray curl from her eyes.  Davenport could practically see the wheels turning in her head.  The daisy brooch in her hair glimmered, seemingly unaffected by the dust and dirt that seemed to coat everything else.  "All right," she said, casting Invisibility on herself.  "Let's go!"

This was all just an illusion, a memory of Garl's replayed.  So Davenport could still see her, a ghost moving through the battlefield.  She dashed out from behind the boulder and made a run towards the blue kobold, dodging and dancing out of the way of the other soldiers.

A large horn sounded through the valley.  From the shadows of another cliff, hundreds of kobolds came pouring in a wave, their ranks bristling with spears. 

Reinforcements.  And they were cutting off the gnomes' path of retreat.

"It's a trap!" Arumdina shouted.  "Those _fucking bastards!"_

The gnome troops seemed to realize this too.  They responded with their own trumpet call, and the cries of "Retreat!  Retreat!" from their officers.  A few gnomes in wizard robes raised their arms, casting an invisibility illusion over the group.  But before they could disappear completely, the spell stuttered out and collapsed.  The gnome wizards fell, pincushioned with arrows.

The kobolds kept coming.  They'd already gotten halfway across the only pass in the wall of cliffs. 

"They won't make it!" Dairwin cried.

"Dairwin, swing me!  I'm right here, I can stop them!"

She drew Arumdina and swung.

A golden arc of light sliced the air.  The edge of the kobold wave buckled and slowed, as several kobold heads came off their shoulders.

Dairwin stumbled, eyes wide in shock.

"Again!"

Dairwin swung again, and again.  Each time, a few dozen kobolds dropped.  But the others kept coming, stepping over the bodies of their fallen. 

The escape route closed off, disappearing behind a bristling wall of spear-wielding kobolds.

Dairwin paused, catching her breath, getting her bearings.  "Oh no…I'm so sorry…"

The gnome troops' retreat slowed, came to a stop.  All grouped together, it was obvious how small their numbers actually were.  And they were completely surrounded.

"I thought…I thought I could do this," she gasped.  "I'm his emissary, I'm supposed to help!  They trusted me to help!"

"I'm sorry, kiddo…I thought I could cut through that line like butter.  I should've…"  Arumdina was silent for a brief space.  And then, "Wait, I have an idea.  I'm not sure if it'll work, but--"

"It's better than nothing!  What've you got?"

"Well…okay, so every time you swing me, you're channeling some of Garl's power, right?" 

Davenport's ears pricked up.

"But you're a mortal," Arumdina continued.  "You only channel so much.  Just a tiny fragment of his power, really."

Dairwin frowned at the axe.  "Are you suggesting.…Is there a way to get around that?"

"I think so.  I've never tried it before.  But I think I can draw more power through, if I focus.  If we time it right.  And if we can pull it off, I should be able to do a lot more damage.  Tear a hole right through that line, make an opening for everyone to escape."

Dairwin bit her lip.  "Let's do it," she said.  She scrambled up onto a boulder and turned to face the wall.  Past the line of kobolds, through the narrow pass, she could see green fields.  She hefted Arumdina.

"All right, on three," said Arumdina.  "One--"

Dairwin hefted the axe over her head.

"Two--!"

She shifted her weight, bracing herself for the swing.

"Three!"

Arumdina sliced the sky in half.

Davenport staggered back, wincing against the bright golden light.  When he opened his eyes again, a huge trench had been carved through the earth in front of Dairwin.  And that trench cut right through the kobold line.  The surviving kobolds at the edge of the attack were scrambling back in confusion, some of them screaming, some of them missing arms and hands.

"Yeah!" Arumdina crowed.  "Roll for _sharp_ , you scaley bastards!"

Dairwin stared.  A cheer went up from the knot of gnomes behind her.  "The emissary!" their general was shouting.  "She's made a path for us!  Praise Garl the Victorious!"

Dairwin turned to face them, still invisible.  The rest of the kobolds hesitated in their advance, looking around in confusion.  The blue kobold commander turned to look right at her, and pointed, shouting.  The troops turned in her direction, some charging and others readying arrows.

"Arumdina, ready?"  Dairwin hefted the axe again.

"One--two-- _three!"_  

Davenport staggered back, throwing up his arms to shield his eyes from the brilliant light.  He waited two beats, then looked.  Another trench had been carved through the kobold troops.  The kobolds were panicking now, their line falling apart.  As they began to scatter and flee, Davenport saw the blue kobold on the ground, sliced in half.

"That…was amazing!" Dairwin gasped.  She stood on the boulder, Arumdina hanging loosely in her grip.  Cracks had spread in the boulder beneath her feet, revealing veins of golden ore.  Her hair was a wild frizz, and she was breathing hard.  There was an eerie golden glow in her eyes.  The air crackled and buzzed around her.

Dusty, who'd been hiding behind the boulder, whined softly.   

"You okay, Dairwin?" asked Arumdina.  "You're aura's looking a little…wonky there."

"I'm fine," she said, grinning.  "Heck, I feel _great!"_ She hefted the axe again.  "One more time!"

It was all an illusion.  A memory.

"If you're sure…"

There was nothing Davenport could do to stop what was going to happen.

"We've got this, Arumdina!  We've got it in the bag!"

He remembered all those times Arumdina seemed overly worried for him.  Warning him against channeling too much of Garl's power.  Screaming that he was going to die.

Dairwin lifted Arumdina over her head.  Garl's power shone through her whole body, like cracks of golden ore in stone.  "One--two--"

He found his feet moving, running.  "Wait--Dairwin, stop--!"  Knowing that she couldn't hear him.

She brought Arumdina down.  There was a crack like the earth itself splitting. 

The air exploded.  Dairwin screamed.

Davenport hit the ground, covering his head, pressing his hands against his ears as the terrible roaring boom resounded through the little valley, echoing back and forth between the cliffs.

And then, silence.

He raised his head.  The gnome and kobold troops stood stunned, staring at the spot where Dairwin had been.  But her body had completely burned away, and all that remained was a small cloud of shimmering white light.  It shifted and shuddered, crackling with golden lightning.

"Dairwin…?"  Arumdina's voice was faint, confused.  She'd fallen several feet away, one blade stuck in the earth.  "Where are you?  What--what the hell just…"

The crackling intensified.  The light grew and changed, resolving into a gnome with wings and jewel-eyes, an aurumvorax's claws and a burning white flame at the tip of her tail.  A ruby shone from the center of her forehead.  Her form shuddered, and lightning scorched the earth around her.

Barry had been right.  Dairwin was a lich. 

Dusty backed away, hackles raised, a low growl in his throat.  Arumdina shouted Dairwin's name, over and over, but Dairwin didn't respond.  She hovered above the boulder still scorched with the ashes of her body, and surveyed the battlefield with cold, unblinking diamond eyes.  Gnome and Kobold alike stared back at her, both armies holding their collective breath.  Into that waiting silence, she spoke three words.

"End the war."

She raised one clawed hand, and a beam of holy light shone from it, scorching a wide arc of the battlefield.  When the dust and smoke cleared, a third of the kobolds--and half the gnomes, standing in the line of fire--were nothing but ash.

Then the screaming started.  Everyone scattered, dropping their weapons and scrambling over each other to get as far away from her as possible.  They weren't fast enough.  A second blast mowed down another segment of the kobold forces, and most of the remaining gnomes. 

"Dairwin!  _Stop!"_ Arumdina screamed.  "What are you doing?!  Stop it!"

"End the war," said Dairwin.  The last of the survivors were rushing for shelter towards the small village, as if its ramshackle fortifications could possibly protect them.  A third blast cleared them all from the battlefield, and the village, too.

The silence settled for real, then.  There was not a sound, not a cry.  Just ashes.

"Oh no….oh no, oh gods…"  Arumdina's voice was a strained whisper.  "Dairwin, _what have you done?"_

Dairwin turned slowly in place.  Behind her, there was a hastily-dug hole where Dusty had burrowed away from the creature he did not recognize.  Her gaze turned towards the ruins of the kobold village, and the tunnels beyond.  Tunnels that led deep into the kobold warrens.  She raised a claw.

"No," said Arumdina.  "Dairwin, _no!_ We don't kill non-combatants!"

But Dairwin ignored her, drifting towards her intended target.  "End the war," she echoed.  Light began to gather in her hand.

Golden chains shot through the air and twisted around her, binding her wings and claws to her sides.  She turned her head.

Garl stood in the smoking ruins of the battlefield, gripping the other end of the chains.  _"DAIRWIN, STOP!"_ he cried, his voice like a trumpet blast from the heavens.

Dairwin tilted her head.  "I will end the war," she said.

Garl looked in horror at the blasted valley.  He closed his jewel-eyes tight.  "You've done enough," he said, his voice hoarse and defeated.  "We're going." 

He raised his free hand, and Arumdina came sailing into his grip. 

"Garl, I'm so sorry," she babbled, "I don't know what happened to her, I didn't--I didn't think--"

He silenced her with a single glare.  With a tilt of his head, the air parted like a curtain, and he walked through, leading Dairwin behind him.  Then the portal closed again.

And Davenport was alone, standing in the ashes of Stonehollow.


	46. The War of Mortals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeff Jeffins goes undercover. Mookie chooses his course. Merle does some gardening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some grim battlefield violence in this chapter.

The armies met upon the High Moor.  The broad grasslands--once a rolling sea of green and gold--were now brown and cracked.  Only a few mournful birds called from the brittle brush.  But at the sound of marching footsteps, they took to the sky and fled.

The Heavenstrike lay quiescent beneath its tarp.  It was built for only one purpose, and in the quiet click of its gears and the thrumming of its runed power-channels, it sensed that purpose drawing near.  Every great weapon was born for a target: an opposite, a nemesis whose existence defined its own.  For some, it was an enemy nation or a hated idea; for others, the target was a shadow on the wall, a fever-dream of would-be heroes in desperate need of a monster to fight.  For the Heavenstrike, though, it had a very specific target:  a sun to its moon, a gravitational counterweight pulling it ever closer. 

Their collision was imminent.  It would be enormous in scale, mutually destructive; and they would smash everything between them into dust. 

It would be beautiful.

The Heavenstrike waited.

 

#

 

Jeff Jeffins lay tucked beneath the barrel of the Heavenstrike, and briefly questioned the life choices that had brought him to this moment.

There was an old stereotype about reporters willing to go to the ends of the world to get an elusive scoop.  He was not the first person in his job to travel to a war zone with an army, in order to see with his own eyes the truth of the world unfolding.  But his quest had long ago stopped being about simply recording the world.  It was about finding the story beneath the story—the one hidden under the surface, in back rooms and in shadowed alleys.  And getting that story out into the world, in the hopes that this madness might be stopped.

So.  He found himself hiding around the Heavenstrike as much as he could, one eye always on the woman who had sold this devastating weapon to Lord Sterling: Lady Silverthorn.

She stood on the wide wooden platform-wagon that supported the Heavenstrike cannon, which was covered in a huge tarp tied down at the corners.  From Jeff’s perspective beneath the tarp, he could only see two pairs of shoes: an elegant pair of wine-colored doeskin boots, and a heavy pair of steel-toed combat boots. 

"Of course," she said to General Knox, in a soothing voice.  "I understand your concern, and I can assure you that the Heavenstrike poses no danger to those standing near it.  The magical burst should have next to no recoil, and its aiming mechanism, which has been tested multiple times and includes my patented triple-layer failsafe system, will keep the shot aimed well above the heads of our troops."  Jeff could hear the smile in her voice.  "It is only Mayor Coronus's troops who will need to worry."

The grizzled general was silent for a long moment.  "Fine," he said.  "But I want this housing properly tied down before firing, just in case."

"Of course," she said.  "I am more than happy to oblige.  And as the safety of your troops weighs so heavily on your mind, it may be prudent to order them to keep the immediate area clear on all sides.  A guard detail, set about fifty paces from each side of the Heavenstrike and allowing no one to approach, will allow my firing crew to work unmolested.  And I am certain Lord Sterling will appreciate your forethought in this matter."

General Knox grunted.  "Very well," he said. 

She was clever, Jeff would give her that much.  She never pulled out a Charm spell unless absolutely required. 

"But I want it understood," Knox continued, "that this thing isn't firing unless Lord Sterling himself orders it."

"Of course, General.  I promise, I will allow nothing on this plain to activate this weapon without Sterling's explicit command."

Wait.  Did she say plain, or plane?

He glanced around, making sure none of the firing crew were nearby, and slid closer to the edge of the tarp, hoping to hear their conversation better.  But before he got much closer, the ground rumbled.  He flattened himself to the wooden platform.

From beneath the edge of the tarp, he watched as the troops of Goldcliff came marching over a low hill to the southeast.  And rising from the middle of the troops, another giant tarp appeared.  Unlike the Heavenstrike, it was tall and rounded, like a giant sphere.  But he had no doubt what it was.

Goldcliff had its own superweapon. 

Glowing lines of power ran along the Heavenstrike's body.  It growled low in its throat.  Jeff went cold again, pressing himself as flat as he could.  Was it being activated already?

But then the Heavenstrike fell silent again, and the lights dimmed.  As if the noise had been a mere acknowledgement, a quiet threat. 

A greeting.

The Goldcliff militia let loose an earth-shaking battlecry.  And they began to charge.

 

#

 

Merle wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.  The Goldcliff forces poured down the hill in a wave of glinting blades, and he thought, "Aw shit, here we go."  Even though he was standing near the back of the line with the other clerics, he still braced himself for the Militia to come crashing against Sterling's forces.

But the impact never happened.  The Neverwinter front-line soldiers suddenly flickered out, for the space of a breath--and flashed back into sight deep into the Goldcliff line, with a sudden and devastating force.  Dozens of Goldcliff soldiers dropped.  The ones still on their feet slowed, thrown off-guard.  And then both lines dissolved into each other:  the Neverwinter forces slicing quick and deep, moving so fast they were hard to see, and the Goldcliff forces pounding back with brutal force.

Well.  He might not like Lady Silverthorn, but whatever she'd armed the troops with seemed to be doing its job.

Lord Sterling was not far from him, sitting on a white horse and watching the battle with a pair of binoculars.

"What is that thing, m'lord?" asked General Knox, eyeing the huge tarp behind the Goldcliff line.

"Nothing good," said Sterling, lowering his binoculars.  Into his Stone of Farspeech, he said, "Aim the Heavenstrike at whatever's hiding beneath that tarp, but remain in standby mode."

Merle frowned.  "I don't think that's such a great idea," he said.  "You don't know what that cannon thing is gonna do!"

Sterling didn't even look at Merle.  "It will save my men and bring this battle to a swift and sure victory," he said. 

"Listen," said Merle, "everyone _says_ that a giant-ass superweapon will solve their problems, but it never works out that way.  Believe me, I--"

"I offered diplomacy."  Now Artemis did look at him, eyes narrowed and mouth grim.  "And he rejected my offer.  The time of diplomacy is over, Merle."  He looked again at the distant shape.  "Look to your own, and I will look to mine."  He clicked his heels against the sides of his horse, who walked briskly away.

Look to his own?  His own were just fine, thank you, and it was Sterling's troops who needed saving.  Saving from being sacrificed to the jaws of this battle.  "Mookie, get back to the tent," he said.  "I'll--Mookie?"

He turned around.  His son was nowhere in sight. 

He scrambled through his memories of the day.  They'd been together in the first aid tent, while Merle had been setting up supplies.  Mookie had been poking into things, getting underfoot, and that half-wild owlbear of his wasn't helping matters.  Finally, he'd sent the kid to the mess tent, hoping to get the creature some meat and to keep Mookie occupied.  But that was two hours ago, and Mookie hadn’t returned. 

Where the hell was his kid?

Panic began to squeeze his chest.  _Where was Mookie?_ He hopped onto his little pony, who'd been feeding patiently by the first aid tent.  "C'mon, Lil’ Stompy!"  And he directed the pony to the front of the camp, into the wide-open space between the tents and the troops. 

He raised his hand and summoned his Guardian of Faith.  There was precious little Pan energy left to draw on.  When she finally came through, her form was washed-out and ghostly, her edges fuzzy.  It was far from the robust golden-glowing form she usually wore.  Still, she looked down at Merle and gave him a weak smile.

"Where's my son?" he asked, unable to keep the panic from his voice.  "Ya gotta help me look for him!"

She turned elegantly in mid-air.  Her wings were transparent, barely a heat shimmer in the air.  She extended her sword towards the battle.

He squinted.  In the distance, he could see a gap opening up in the battle, as soldiers hastily scrambled to get out of the way of a compact furry figure rushing through their midst.

Beary Owljeans.  And Mookie clung to his back, wild-haired, shouting a war cry and waving a club.

Merle kicked his pony forward.  "Mookie!" he cried.  _"Mookie!!"_   He wasn't even thinking anymore, he just needed to get to his kid as fast as possible.  He was already in the crush of troops before he realized Della Reese had faded away behind him.

The tarp fell away from the Goldcliff army's weapon.  A giant gold-painted sphere gleamed in the sun.  As Mookie charged towards it and Merle charged after him, the sphere rose on thick legs and extended a pair of bulky arms, with hands like wrecking balls.  A shielding plate opened up in its chest, revealing a glass-covered cockpit. 

The robot flexed its arms.  From a shoulder-mounted megaphone, Mayor Coronus's voice rang out.  "You think your paltry tricks and your second-rate pea-shooter can stop me, Artemis?  Let me show you how a real leader wins a battle!"  The robot held out one arm, and its wrecking-ball fist shot out on a long chain, plowing straight into the Neverwinter line and crushing a small ballista.

The ball retracted, and the robot flexed again.  "You want to steal my city's resources, Artemis?  Come and take them!"

_Grandstanding jackass,_ Merle thought.  What else could go wrong?

Li’l Stompy reared as the ground began to rumble.  Merle grabbed his reins and tried to calm the little pony down.  He scanned the battlefield for the source of the rumble. 

He hadn't noticed a small caravan of wagons parked not far from the battlefield; but the noise was coming from the largest and heaviest wagon, as a handful of people in mud-stained travel clothes were taking it apart.  They showed no banners of allegiance; judging by their ragged civvies, they looked like any number of displaced villagers Merle had seen along the roads.  What the heck were they doing here?

The wagon’s wooden sides were pulled away and the canvas removed to reveal a…was that some kind of _tank?_   Its front had an angled cow-catcher and a stubby smokestack, like a miniature train.  And as it began to roll down the hill on treads, its body lengthened, becoming a line of interlocking metal segments.

By now, the fighting had slowed as soldiers began to notice its approach.  It gained speed as it rolled down the slope, letting loose a piercing whistle.  Merle could just make out a pair of symbols painted on its side:  the Rockport City coat of arms, beside a white seven-pointed star. 

Aw, shit. 

The segmented tank rumbled its way directly into the center of the battlefield, puffing smoke from its engine compartment, like some sort of metallic worm.  Merle brought Li’l Stompy to a halt as the tank cut off the most direct route to Mookie.  He was starting to look around for the best way around it, when narrow slats opened up in the tank's sides. 

He swore and dropped into his saddle, expecting a barrage of crossbow bolts or arrows or magic missiles.  But all he heard was the clang of metal, and the train chugged along and past him.  He took three breaths and looked up.

Long, dark objects were being pushed out of the tank's slats, but they weren't projectiles.  They were just being…dropped on the ground? 

A handful of soldiers stepped up in its wake and picked up the objects, curious.  Drew them from their sheaths.

Swords.  The tank had just dropped a dozen swords onto the field.

Merle's eyes widened.  Taako had given him a call a few days ago, his voice hurried and fearful, talking about the Rockport City Council and a caravan and some wickedly powerful swords that could sever bonds…

"Wait!  Don't use those!" he shouted, kicking his pony forward and waving his wooden arm.  But the soldiers had already resumed fighting with their new weapons.

And the swords did their grim work.  Armor split open like sliced cheese, heads and limbs parted from bodies.  And the soldiers who were still standing fought with the ferocity of berserkers, screaming and slicing with the desperation of people who had nothing left to live for.

And the tank chugged on, dropping more and more swords like tainted seeds onto the battlefield.  In their wake, the fighting intensified to a level Merle hadn't seen since the Relic Wars. 

Shit.  He couldn't pass through the line now; it would be like throwing himself through a thresher.  And there was Mookie, getting farther and farther away on the other side of that line.

It was then that he remembered his Vroom Broom, stowed safely but uselessly in his tent.

He pulled out his Stone and dialed Mookie's number.  "Come on, come on fireball, pick up!"  He swung his warhammer to knock aside a Goldcliff soldier who got a little too close to his pony.  "Pick up!"

The line connected.  "Hey, pops!" Mookie chirped.  "Can ya see me?"

"Yeah, and you shouldn't be on the field!" he shouted into the Stone.  "Just get somewhere safe, and keep outta sight till I can get to ya!"

"We gotta stop this war, pops," said Mookie, very seriously.  "Beary and I can take out the big gold robot.  You need to stop the monster cannon."

Merle glanced at the Heavenstrike.  The cannon's muzzle was lifting towards the golden robot…exactly where Mookie was heading.

"Mookie!  Ya can't take that thing on by yerself!  You're gonna get yerself killed!"  He debated the likelihood that he could stop the Heavenstrike in time before it blasted his son to ashes, versus the likelihood he would even survive if he tried to run straight to Mookie through the bloodbath in the middle of the field.  "Ya can't--"

"I believe in you, pops!" said Mookie.  "You're the coolest hero in the planes!"  And then the call ended.

Merle's throat tightened.  He wheeled Li’l Stompy around and dug his heels into her sides, aiming straight for the Heavenstrike. 

 

#

 

The soldiers gathered around the cannon were a problem.  But Merle pulled out his warhammer Smoosher and knocked them aside and dropped a few into the Astral Plane, shouting apologies as he went.  But his son was in danger and there wasn't any time to ask nicely.

Lady Silverthorn was up on the cannon's bed, shouting orders at a soldier up on a higher platform, who was pulling levers on a console.  The cannon's gears grumbled as it lifted and angled a little to the left, a little up…fine-tuning its aim.

He pulled out his hand-axe, Li’l Choppy, and flung it.  It went wide, missing the console he was aiming for and landing instead at the operator's feet.  The man jumped away in surprise, swearing.  Lady Silverthorn looked down at him.

Oh yeah.  He'd given up his axe proficiency in Wonderland.  Damn it.

"Hmm," said Silverthorn.  "And here I hoped that I'd be able to do my job without interruption."

"Sorry to disappoint," Merle grumbled, climbing from Li’l Stompy’s back onto the cannon bed.  "But if your job involves triggering a superweapon on a battlefield, well…"  He hefted Smoosher, wishing Taako and Magnus were here to help, but knowing he'd fight on his own if he had to.  "I can't let that happen."

The tiefling woman smiled.  “I’m sure there’s no need to fight,” she said.  “We both want to keep our friends safe.  The Heavenstrike is just another way to ensure that.”

His head felt a little fuzzy.  Her voice flowed into his ears, cool and clear as moonlight. 

He shook it off.  “Ya ain’t gonna Charm me that easy,” he said.

If she was disappointed that her spell didn’t take, she didn’t show it.  "You surprise me, Merle."  She regarded him coolly, chin resting on the back of one hand.  "Are you, interplanar traveler and world-savior, still so concerned about these small lives on the battlefield?  They will die for a noble--"

He swung Smoosher at her head.  She dodged easily, moving like water.  Smoosher's head smashed into the platform with a loud crack of wood.  "There's no life on that battlefield that's small," he said, raising his wooden arm.  He cast Flame Strike.

Nothing happened.  No column of divine fire roared out of the sky at his word.  No flicker of flame appeared, or even a feeling of warmth.  Nothing.

"Oh dear," she said, smiling.  "I'm afraid there's only one god left on Faerun, and it's not Pan."

Wait, how did she--?

Well, shit.  Of course she was one of Whisper's followers.  He gritted his teeth.  Just his luck, wasn't it?

"You know who I'm talking about," she continued, her smile widening.  It was a shark's grin, sharp and predatory.  "I'm sure if you offered him your prayers, he'd answer them."

"Over my dead body!"

Silverthorn cocked an eyebrow.  From the thin sheath at her side, she drew an elegant silver rapier.  "As you wish."

She moved faster than he could react.  She was behind him already, and his cheek burned.  He reached up in surprise, feeling the bloody score left by the rapier's tip.  "Fire when ready," she said casually.

The soldier in front of him reached for a lever.  Silverthorn was behind Merle, weapon out, and his back was wide open.

He sprang forward, throwing Smoosher at the soldier.  Silverthorn lunged—

The hammer hit the soldier in the knee.  He heard a cry and a thud behind him, and then a human man's voice shouting, "Go, Merle!  Stop him!"

Merle knew a divine intervention when he saw one.  He scrambled up onto the firing platform just as the soldier there was hefting Smoosher. 

"Don't interfere," said the soldier, raising the warhammer.  "I don't want to hurt one of the Birds, but I must do as my Lord commands."

Merle saw the rounded shape of the golden robot in the distance.  Wondered if Mookie had reached it yet.  Its arms were swinging wildly, but from this distance, he couldn't see what it was fighting.  Below the firing platform, a lanky, red-haired man in a cloak was grappling with Lady Silverthorn, who'd dropped her rapier and was now scratching at him with her claws.

"Listen," he said, drawing his Staff of Seasons and leaning on it.  "I don't wanna hurt you either.  But if that thing fires, it's gonna hit my kid.  And a whole lot of other people besides, who don't deserve it."

The soldier frowned.  "Then they will be noble sacrifices to He Who Turns the Gears," he said, and brought Smoosher down.

Merle swung the Staff of Seasons, hoping to knock Smoosher aside.  The Staff cracked against the warhammer's wooden shaft, which began to sprout.  Vines grew along its length and leaves unfurled.  The soldier cried out and dropped Smoosher.  Merle gripped the Staff and swiped at his good knee.  He went down with another cry. 

"I may not be able to call back the ocean," Merle said, feeling hope flutter in his chest again, "but I can do _this_."  He tapped the Staff against the planks of the firing platform.  Immediately they reacted as Smoosher had, sprouting vines and leaves and flowers.  The soldier tried to get up, but his legs tangled in the fresh growth and he fell again.

Silverthorn cried out in rage below him.  She was bloodied, but she'd managed to throw aside her assailant and was lunging for the ladder up to the firing platform.

He picked up Smoosher, heedless of the vines covering it.  “Here’s my prayer to Whisper!” he said, and brought it down on her head. 

She landed on the lower platform, unconscious, and was immediately overtaken by vines. 

Merle grunted.  “And Pan bless you, too.”


	47. Mookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeff Jeffins ties up a loose end. Mookie rushes in. Lup makes a hasty decision.

Jeff Jeffins adjusted his glasses.  “Huh,” he said. 

The Heavenstrike’s wooden platform groaned beneath him and Merle as vines overtook the planks and reached up along the cannon itself.  Stepping gingerly through the growth, he pulled a coil of rope from a crate of supplies he’d discovered while tucked beneath the cannon’s belly, and began tying the unconscious Silverthorn’s hands behind her back. 

Merle climbed down the ladder and watched him, looking thoroughly confused and a little suspicious.

“Jeff Jeffins,” he said.  “Of the Jeff Report.  Long story, but I assure you I’m an ally.”  He stuck out one hand.

Merle shook it.  “Well, any foe of Silverthorn’s a friend of mine.”  He glanced out in the distance towards the golden robot standing at the front of the Goldcliff line.

Jeff frowned.  “You said your child is in the cannon’s path?”

 “Mookie,” said Merle, his voice low and rough.

“Then you should go rescue him!” said a voice from above.  They looked up to see Jeff Angel descending.  He landed on one knee and flexed.  “We’ll take it from here!”  He glanced at Jeff Jeffins.  “Uh, I’m not too late, am I?”

He grimaced.  “You just missed all the action, I’m afraid.”  He’d called Jeff Angel the moment the Goldcliff forces had come into view, suspecting he’d need some backup.

Merle rubbed the back of his head.  “I feel like I’m missing a whole lot right now, but, uh…thanks for the assist!”  He slid Smoosher, Li’l Choppy, and the Staff of Seasons back into their respective slings.  “There’s another soldier in the vines up there you might wanna tie up.”

Jeff nodded.  “We’ll take care of it.  All the cannoneers for the Heavenstrike are under Silverthorn’s employment, and if she’s with the Church of the Cleansing Fire, then they might be, too.”

“We got this!” said Jeff Angel, flexing again.  “Evildoers stand no chance against us!”

Merle pulled out his Extreme Teen Bible and tapped a page with the Staff of Seasons.  “Not sure if this’ll work, but…I cast Conjure Celestial!” he declared.

The pages sparked and sputtered a little.  Finally, a pair of hooves appeared out of the pages.  Moving with great strain, as if trying to push itself through a keyhole, a pegasus pulled itself out of the book and shook itself. 

It was…smaller than a Pegasus should be.  More of a pony than a horse, really.  And for some reason, its face reminded Jeff of every Greg he’d ever met.

“Come on, Gregasus,” said Merle, hopping onto the creature’s back.  “Let’s go get Mookie outta trouble!” 

The pegasus whickered and leapt into the air, flapping straight for the golden robot on strong but stubby wings.

Jeff Angel was already up on the firing platform, tying up the soldier there.  “Uh…we got a problem,” he called down.

That was the last thing Jeff wanted to hear.  “What is it?”

Jeff Angel pointed to a group of soldiers heading their way. 

The open space that Silverthorn had ordered around the cannon had worked to their advantage, buying Jeff and Merle time to take out the weapons dealer and her assistant.  But Merle bursting through the boundary, followed by a commotion up on the platform, followed by vines that were now wrapping around the cannon’s barrel, well…it had all attracted a lot of notice.

He didn’t think his press pass was going to get him out of this one.

“Maybe they’re wrestling fans?” Jeff Angel suggested, with a sort of desperate hope.

He doubted these troops were going to be turned away with a handful of autographed photos.

But before the troops could reach the cannon, the air beside Jeff was sliced open by a flaming sword, and Lup Taaco blasted him with a fireball.

 

#

 

Mookie didn't say this out loud, but he was scared.

The battle was scary.  It was loud, and a lot of people were screaming and shouting, and there were a lot of hurt folks everywhere.  He'd seen a lot of injuries in his young life:  it came with having a cleric for a dad.  But this was different than being in a cleric's office with good light and cheerful assistants and his dad's steady hands.  This was raw and messy and he thought that if he stopped now, he'd just freeze up and cry. 

So he kept looking straight at the big gold spherical monster-robot and gripped the fur of Beary's neck as the owlbear darted through the mess of battle. 

It was time to be a hero.

A few Neverwinter soldiers were slinging spells at the robot and trying to hit its feet with their swords, but they weren't having much luck.  The robot swung its wrecking-ball hand, knocking over a few of them.  Beary circled around it, coming at it from its blindside while the cockpit was turned towards the other soldiers.

"C'mon, boy, UP!" shouted Mookie. 

Beary leapt onto one of the jointed legs, his claws digging deep into the metal.  Mookie hung on tight as the owlbear began to climb.  There was an opening at the base of the big sphere, where the leg emerged.  Pistons churned and cables dangled, exposed in the very narrow gap.

"This seems important," said Mookie.

Beary, in that weird way where he seemed to understand Mookie's intentions, reached in and snapped a few cables with his beak.  They began to leak oil.  Beary snorted and shook his head, and leapt onto the round torso, climbing up its backside and leaving deep gouges in the gold paint.

They reached the gap where one arm emerged.  Beary snapped another cable and knocked a piston loose, causing steam to hiss everywhere.  Mookie directed him to back up so they wouldn't get burned by the steam.  The damaged arm dropped slowly with a squeal of metal, and stopped moving.

He heard shouts from below.  Goldcliff soldiers were pointing at him and aiming arrows.  That was bad.  "Beary, get up on top!" he cried.  Beary gave a chirp and started climbing again.  Arrows bounced off the metal to either side of them.

The robot turned suddenly, twisting back and forth like an angry pony trying to buck them off.  Beary dug in his claws, desperate to stay on.  But the robot stopped and swung again, harder this time, and Mookie was falling, clinging to Beary's back.  He landed on the ground hard, and they tumbled together through the dirt before coming to a stop.

Mookie lay still, just breathing.  The world spun around him.  He thought he heard Beary crying out.  The robot turned above him, a slow-moving sun with the moon hanging in the sky behind it.

He thought of the moon, and then the Bureau, and his dad and the IPRE and the Story.  He took a deep breath, and sat up.

Beary's fur was rumpled and he had a bad scrape on one shoulder, but he was on his feet, too.  Mookie grabbed a tuft of his fur and Beary leaned down, and Mookie climbed on top of his best friend.  Together they looked up at the robot. 

Mookie raised his fist and shouted in defiance. 

The robot raised its own wrecking-ball fist.  Beary's muscles tensed, ready to dodge.

A loud shriek sounded from the sky, and a small silver dragon dropped onto the robot from behind.  The robot staggered back under the sudden weight, its one good arm flailing now in a desperate attempt to keep its balance.  The silver dragon breathed ice into that arm's shoulder joint, which froze stiff.

Mookie's jaw dropped.  "Wow," he said.  "Cool!"

And then he and Beary leapt back into the fray, because fighting a giant robot with an owlbear companion and a new silver dragon friend was just what heroes did.

 

#

 

Lup hovered over the battlefield, watching the whole thing unfold.  She felt sick to her stomach.

"What the fuck am I supposed to be doing here, anyway?" she asked, folding her arms.

_Answering a prayer,_ said Whisper.

"What, one of your sycophants wants me to tuck them in?  Or T-pose above the battlefield to fill them with devotion?"

But Whisper didn't say anything else.  So Lup scanned the battlefield, wondering if there was something she could do to mitigate the damage—or maybe clue in her family on how to stop it.  She dropped closer to the big gold-painted robot, hoping to spot a weak point.

She grimaced.  As giant robots went, it was tacky as fuck.  Cheap gold paint was already flaking off its steel body, and the words _Gold Standard_ were painted in giant cursive letters across the front, like a poorly-placed ad for a jewelry store.  Not that a giant robot was a bad engagement gift, per se.  But she'd feel bad for anyone whose partner thought _this_ gaudy thing was a model of elegance.  She snickered.

That was when she spotted Mookie barrelling up towards it, on the back of a baby owlbear.

Her first thought was, _That looks totally badass._

Her second, more panicked thought was, that kid shouldn't be anywhere near the front lines of a battlefield.  What was he doing at the front lines of a battlefield?!  _Where the hell was Merle?_

The Gold Standard raised one heavy wrecking-ball fist and slammed it into the earth, crushing a handful of Neverwinter soldiers who were attacking its feet.  Mookie didn't slow down.

She didn't worry about what Whisper would think.  She just held out her hand to blast the Gold Standard to smithereens.

A tiny lick of flame curled around her fingers, and vanished like a snuffed candle.

_You forget your place,_ said Whisper.  _The Gold Standard has my blessing.  You cannot harm it._  

She could practically feel the smug grin behind his words.  She shuddered.

She turned in mid-air, looking around for anything that _could_ damage it.  Knock its feet out from under it, blast it, gum up its works.

Her eyes landed on the giant silver cannon parked in the Neverwinter camp.  It was aimed low at the battlefield, but it wasn't charging.

She felt Whisper's displeasure.  Bingo.

That asshole might have dropped two megaweapons into this battlefield, but he'd never anticipated Lup turning one against the other. 

She used her sword to cut straight through to the cannon's platform.  Standing there was a skinny, red-haired wizard and an aarakocra, both in dark cloaks.  Probably more of Whisper's flunkies.  The whole platform and half the cannon was covered in vines.  She wondered if Merle had been through here.  She hoped the cannon was still operational.

_Lup_ , said Whisper, _do not dare destroy my Gold Standard._

"Fuck you," she said.

The red-haired wizard turned to her.  "Lup?" he asked, eyes wide.  "Lup Taaco?"

"Not interested in reading your pamphlets," she said, and blasted him aside.  Damn, she hated cultists and their desperate devotion.

She climbed up to the firing mechanism, stepping over a Neverwinter soldier that the cultists must have knocked out and tied up.  On a console was a single, short red lever next to several directional knobs for aiming the barrel.  She turned a few of the knobs, and the cannon slowly began to lift, straining against the vines.  Up, and to the left—

The aarakocra tackled her from behind.  "That is way not cool!" he shouted.

"Family emergency!" she shouted back, and punched him in the beak.  This time, Whisper didn't hold back her fire, and the singed aarakocra went flying back with a smell of cooking poultry.

The cannon was locked onto the Gold Standard.  From this distance, she could see a small spot of darkness moving over the thing's golden carapace:  Mookie's owlbear was climbing up its torso and onto its shoulder.

The Gold Standard twisted in place, flinging the owlbear to the ground.  For the space of a breath, it didn't move.  But then it got to its feet, and Mookie sat up on its back, waving a fist in the air.

The Gold Standard raised its wrecking-ball fist a second time, ready to bring it straight down on Merle's son.           

Lup grabbed the lever to fire.

The air sliced open beside her.  "Lup!  Stop!" came Barry's voice.  And then he was tackling her to the platform.  She hit the planks hard, the breath knocked out of her lungs.  Taako pulled out his Umbrastaff 2.0 and transmuted the entire firing mechanism into pudding.

"Mookie!" she screamed.  "That robot's gonna crush him—"

And then she heard it, in the back of her head:  Whisper cursing, raging.  She'd been supposed to fire the Heavenstrike, he'd been pushing her to fire it and tear up the battlefield.  But now it was ruined, and the Gold Standard was being torn apart by _children_.

She lay on the platform, breathing hard.  He'd been manipulating her this whole damn time.  And she'd fallen for it like an idiot.

Barry was breathing hard, eyes wide and terrified.  "Lup…" he said.  "You—"

She smiled.  "Yeah, I almost fell for it," she said, even as her heart pounded in her chest at how fucking close she'd gotten to doing something as unforgivable as triggering another megaweapon on this planet.  She reached up to touch Barry's cheek, and he sighed in relief.

A flash in the sky caught her eye, drawing her gaze towards the Bureau's moon base, which hovered like a silver coin in the muddy, bile-colored sky.  A strange bright light was shining from it.

And then the base exploded.


End file.
